'i^ 


fA  .C<xM^ 


THE   SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATBRMEAD8 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBBT 

THE  QRAFT0N8 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

THB  CLINTONS  AND  OTHERS 


THE 


SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 


BY 

ARCHIBALD   MARSHALL 

Author  of 

Exton  Manor,  The  Eldest  Son 

etc. 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1919 


Published  October,  1912 

by 

DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


•    k    •  9 


•  •••'..  » 

•  •  •  •,  • .  • 


TO 

ANSTEY    GUTHRIE 


A  ^,^n  7  9  'T 


r 


'^frvcr 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I 

A  Court  Ball        .... 

PAGE 
1 

II 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  . 

13 

III 

The  Clintons  of  Kencote  . 

.        26 

IV 

Clintons  Young  and  Old    . 

.        37 

V 

Melbury  Park       .... 

.       57 

VI 

A  Good  Long  Talk      .        .         .        . 

73 

VII 

The  Rector 

92 

VIII 

By  the  Lake          .... 

.      108 

IX 

The  Question  of  Marriage 

.      126 

X 

Town  Versus  Country 

140 

XI 

A  Wedding    ...... 

155 

XII 

Food  and  Raiment 

.      167 

XIII 

Ronald  Mackenzie 

.      183 

XIV 

The  Plunge   

.      201 

XV 

Bloomsbury    ..... 

.      210 

XVI 

The  Pursuit           .... 

.      225 

XVII 

The  Contest          .... 

.      240 

XVIII 

After  the  Storm  .... 

.      253 

XIX 

The   Whole  House  Upset    . 

.     272 

XX 

Mrs.  Clinton          .... 

.     288 

-XXI 

Cicely's  Return    .... 

.      305 

XXII 

The  Life 

322 

CHAPTER   I 

A    COURT    BALL 

"  I  EECOLLECT  the  time,"  said  the  Squire,  "  when 
two  women  going  to  a  ball  were  a  big  enough  load 
for  any  carriage.  You  may  say  what  you  like  about 
crinolines,  but  I've  seen  some  very  pretty  women  in 
them  in  my  time." 

There  were  three  people  in  the  carriage  passing 
slowly  up  the  Mall  in  the  string,  with  little  jerks 
and  progressions.  They  were  the  Squire  himself, 
Mrs.  Clinton,  and  Cicely,  and  they  were  on  their 
way  to  a  Court  Ball. 

The  Squire,  big,  florid,  his  reddish  beard  touched 
with  grey  falling  over  the  red  and  gold  of  his 
Deputy-Lieutenant's  uniform,  sat  back  comfortably 
beside  his  wife,  who  was  dressed  in  pale  lavender 
silk,  with  diamonds  in  her  smooth,  grey-yellow  hair. 
She  was  short  and  rather  plump.  Her  grey  eyes, 
looking  out  on  the  violet  of  the  night  sky,  the  trees, 
and  the  crowd  of  hilarious  onlookers  who  had  not 
been  invited  to  Buckingham  Palace,  had  a  patient 
and  slightly  wistful  expression.  She  had  not  spoken 
since  the  carriage  had  left  the  quiet  hotel  in 
which  they  were  staying  for  their  fortnight  in 
London. 


2        THE    SQUlRE^S   DAUGHTER 

Cicely  'skt  b"ri  the  back  -&eat  of  the  carriage.  On 
such  an  occasion  as  this  she  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  be  accorded  the  feminine  privilege  of 
sitting  at  the  side  of  her  mother,  but  it  had  not 
occurred  to  the  Squire  to  offer  it  to  her.  She  was 
a  pretty  girl,  twenty-two  years  of  age,  with  a  fair 
skin  and  abundant  brown  hair.  She  was  dressed  in 
costly  white  satin,  her  gown  simply  cut.  As  she 
had  stood  before  her  glass,  while  her  mother's  maid 
had  held  for  her  her  light  evening  cloak,  her  beauti- 
ful neck  and  shoulders  had  seemed  warmly  flushed  by 
contrast  with  the  dead  pallor  of  the  satin.  She  also 
had  hardly  spoken  since  they  had  driven  off  from 
their  hotel,  which  was  so  quiet  and  private  that  it 
was  hardly  like  an  hotel,  and  where  some  of  the 
servants  had  stood  in  the  hall  to  see  them  get  into 
their  carriage,  just  as  they  might  have  done  at  home 
at  Kencote. 

It  was  a  great  occasion  for  Cicely.  Her  brothers 
— Dick,  who  was  in  the  Grenadier  Guards,  and 
Humphrey,  who  was  in  the  Foreign  Office — ^were 
well  enough  used  to  the  scenes  of  splendour  offered 
by  a  London  season,  but  Cicely  had  hardly  ever 
been  in  London  at  all.  She  had  been  brought  up 
four  years  before  to  be  presented,  and  had  been 
taken  home  again  immediately.  She  had  seen  noth- 
ing of  London  gaieties,  either  then  or  since.  Now 
she  was  to  enjoy  such  opportunities  of  social  inter- 
course as  might  be  open  to  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
squire   who    had    had    all   he    wanted   of   town    life 


A   COURT   BALL  8 

thirty  years  before,  and  had  lived  in  his  country 
house  ever  since.  A  fortnight  was  as  long  as  the 
Squire  cared  to  be  away  from  Kencote,  even  in  the 
month  of  June ;  and  a  fortnight  was  to  be  the  extent 
of  Cicely's  London  season.  This  was  to  be  the  crown- 
ing night  of  it. 

The   Squire   chattered   on   affably.     He  had  had 
a  good  dinner  and  had  not  been  hurried  over  it,  or 
afterwards.     That  was  the  worst  of  those  theatres, 
he   would   say;   they   didn't   give   you  time   even   to 
drink    your    glass    of   wine;    and   he   had    not   been 
affable  with  his  wife  and  daughter  the  evening  before, 
when  driving  to  the  play.     But  now  he  was  rather 
pleased  with  himself.     He  did  not  care  for  all  this 
sort  of  thing,  of  course;  he  had  had  quite  enough 
of    it    as    a    subaltern,    dancing    about    London    all 
night,    and   going   everywhere — all   very   well    for   a 
young  fellow,  but  you  got  tired  of  it.     Still,  there 
was  a  certain  flavour  about  a  Court  Ball,  even  for 
a   one-time   subaltern   in  the   Blues,  who   had  taken 
part  in  everything  that  was  going  on.     Other  peo- 
ple scrambled  for  such  things — they  had  to  if  they 
wanted  them,  and  why  they  should  want  them  if  they 
didn't  come  to  them  naturally,  the  Squire  couldn't 
tell.     To  a  man  of  the  importance  of  Edward  Clin- 
ton of  Kencote,  they  came  as   a  matter  of  course, 
and  he  accepted  them  as  his  due,  but  was  pleased, 
too,  at  having  his   social  importance  recognised  in 
such   a   way,   without   his   stirring   a   finger.      As    a 
matter   of   cold   fact,   a   finger  had  been   stirred  to 


4        THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

procure  this  particular  honour,  although  it  had  not 
been  his.     But  of  that  he  was  not  aware. 

The  carriage  drove  slowly  with  the  rest  into  the 
big  court-yard,  where  a  military  band  was  playing 
bright  music.  Cicely  suddenly  felt  exhilarated  and 
expectant.  They  drove  up  before  the  great  entrance, 
red-carpeted,  brightly  lit,  and  went  through  the  hall 
up  the  stairs  into  the  cloak-room.  Cicely  had  a 
flush  on  her  cheeks  now  as  she  waited  for  her  mother, 
who  seemed  to  be  taking  an  interminable  time  to  settle 
her  lace  and  her  jewels.  Mrs.  Clinton  looked  her 
over  and  her  eyes  brightened  a  little.  "  Are  you 
nervous,  darling.'^  "  she  asked;  and  Cicely  said,  "  No, 
mother,  not  a  bit."  The  scent  of  flowers  was  in  her 
nostrils,  the  strains  of  the  music  expectantly  in  her 
ears.  She  was  going  to  dance  in  a  royal  palace, 
and  she  was  such  a  country  mouse  that  she  was 
excited  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  royalty  at  close 
quarters.  She  had  been  far  too  nervous  to  take  in 
anything  when  she  had  been  presented,  and  that  had 
been  four  years  ago. 

They  went  out  and  found  the  Squire  waiting  for 
them.  He  did  not  ask  them,  as  he  generally  did, 
why  they  had  been  so  long. 

They  seemed  to  go  through  interminable  wide 
corridors,  decorated  in  red  and  gold,  with  settees 
against  the  walls  and  beautiful  pictures  hanging 
above  them,  but  came  at  last  to  the  great  ball- 
room. 

Cicely  drew  her  breath  as  she  entered.     This  was 


A    COURT    BALL  5 

better  than  the  Meadshire  County  Ball,  or  the  South 
Meadshire  Hunt  Ball.  The  women  were  mostly  in 
white,  or  pale  colours,  but  their  jewels  were  beyond 
anything  she  had  ever  imagined.  The  lights  from 
the  great  lustre  chandeliers  seemed  to  be  reflected  in 
those  wonderful  clusters  and  strings  and  devices  of 
sparkling  gems.  Cold  white  and  cold  fire  for  the 
women,  colour  for  the  men.  Scarlet  and  gold  pre- 
dominated, but  there  were  foreign  attaches  in  uni- 
forms of  pale  blue  and  silver,  and  other  unfamiliar 
colours,  eastern  robes  and  dresses  encrusted  with 
jewels  or  richly  embroidered  in  silks.  It  was  gor- 
geous, a  scene  from  fairj^land. 

There  was  a  sudden  ebbing  of  the  tide  of  chatter. 
The  band  in  the  gallery  began  to  play  "  God  save 
the  King."  Doors  were  thrown  open  at  the  end  of 
the  great  room,  and  the  royal  party  came  in  slowly, 
passed  down  the  open  space  on  the  red  carpet  be- 
tween the  lines  of  bowing  and  curtseying  guests,  and 
took  their  places  on  the  dais.  Cicely  gazed  her  fill 
at  them.  They  were  just  as  she  had  seen  them  a 
hundred  times  in  pictures  in  the  illustrated  papers, 
but  more  royal,  and  yet,  more  human. 

They  danced  their  opening  quadrille,  and  after 
that  every  one  could  dance.  But  of  all  the  people 
there  Cicely  knew  no  one  who  would  be  likely  to 
dance  with  her.  She  sat  by  her  mother  on  one  of  the 
raised  settees  that  ran  in  four  rows  the  length  of  the 
room.  The  Squire  had  found  friends  and  was  talking 
to  them  elsewhere.     Her  brother  Dick,  who  she  knew 


6        THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

was  to  have  been  there,  she  had  not  yet  seen.  Every- 
thing depended  upon  him.  Surely,  people  did  not 
come  casually  late  to  a  Court  Ball !  If  something  had 
prevented  his  coming  at  all,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  would  have  to  sit  there  all  the  evening. 

Her  eyes  brightened.  There  was  Dick  making  his 
way  towards  them.  He  looked  very  smart  in  his 
guardsman's  uniform,  and  very  much  at  home  with 
himself,  as  if  the  King's  ball-room  was  no  more  to  him 
than  any  other  ball-room.  He  was  always  provok- 
ingly  leisurely  in  his  movements,  and  even  now  he 
stopped  twice  to  talk  to  people  whom  he  knew,  and 
stood  with  them  each  time  as  if  he  would  stay  there 
for  ever.  Really,  Dick  could  be  almost  as  provok- 
ing as  the  Squire,  where  their  womenfolk  were  con- 
cerned. 

But  at  last  he  came,  smiling  very  pleasantly. 
"  Hullo,  mother!  "  he  said.  "  Hullo,  Siskin!  Now 
you've  seen  the  Queen  in  her  parlour,  eh.'^  Well, 
how  do  you  like  yourself  .^^  " 

He  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  Dick,  with  his 
well-shaped,  closely  cropped  head,  his  well-trained 
moustache,  his  broad,  straight  shoulders  and  lean 
waist  and  hips.  He  was  over  thirty,  but  showed 
few  signs  as  yet  of  the  passing  of  youth.  It  was 
quite  plain  by  the  way  he  looked  at  her  that  he  was 
fond  of  his  sister.  She  was  nearly  ten  years  younger 
than  he  and  still  a  child  to  him,  to  be  patronised 
and  petted,  if  she  was  taken  notice  of  at  all.  He 
didn't  take  much  notice  of  his  mother,  contenting 


A   COURT   BALL  7 

himself  with  telling  her  that  she  "  looked  as  smart 
as  any  of  'em."  But  he  stood  and  talked  to  Cicely, 
and  his  eyes  rested  on  her  as  if  he  were  proud  of 
her. 

In  the  meantime  the  delicious  strains  of  a  valse 
were  swinging  through  the  great  room,  and  the 
smooth  floor  was  full  of  dancers,  except  in  the  space 
reserved  for  the  royalties,  where  only  a  few  couples 
were  circling.  Cicely's  feet  were  moving.  "  Can't 
we  dance,  Dick.?"  she  said. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Dick,  "  let's  have  a  scurry,"  and 
he  led  her  down  on  to  the  floor  and  floated  her  out 
into  a  paradise  of  music  and  movement.  Dick  was 
the  best  partner  she  had  ever  danced  with.  He  had 
often  snubbed  her  about  her  own  dancing,  but  he 
had  danced  with  her  all  the  same,  more  than  most 
brothers  dance  with  their  sisters,  at  country  balls, 
which  were  the  only  balls  she  had  ever  been  to.  He 
was  a  kind  brother,  according  to  his  lights,  and 
Cicely  would  have  liked  to  dance  with  him  all  the 
evening. 

That,  of  course,  was  out  of  the  question.  Dick 
knew  plenty  of  people  to  dance  with  to-night,  if 
she  didn't.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  know  half  the  people 
in  the  room,  although  he  gave  her  the  impression 
that  he  thought  Court  Balls  rather  mixed  affairs. 
"  Can't  be  certain  of  meeting  your  friends  here,'* 
he  said,  and  added,  "  of  course,"  as  admitting  hand- 
somely that  people  might  be  quite  entitled  to  be  asked 
who  did  not  happen  to  be  his  friends.     "  You're  not 


8        THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

the  only  country  cousins,  Siskin,"  he  said,  which 
gave  Cicely  somehow  a  higher  opinion  of  herself, 
his  dissociation  of  himself  in  this  matter  of  country 
cousinhood  from  his  family  striking  her  as  nothing 
unreasonable.  Indeed,  it  was  not  unreasonable  with 
regard  to  the  Clintons,  the  men  taking  their  part,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  in  everything  to  which  their 
birth  and  wealth  entitled  them,  so  long  as  they  cared 
to  do  so,  the  women  living,  for  the  most  part,  at 
home,  in  a  wide  and  airy  seclusion. 

"Want  to  dance,  eh.'^"  said  Dick,  in  answer  to 
her  little  plea.  "  All  right,  I'll  bring  up  some  young 
fellows." 

And  he  did.  He  brought  up  a  succession  of  them 
and  delivered  them  off-hand  to  his  mother  and  sister 
with  a  slight  air  of  authority,  doing  his  duty  very 
thoroughly,  as  a  kind  brother  should. 

Most  of  them  were  quite  young — as  young,  or 
younger  than  Cicely  herself.  Some  of  them  wore  the 
uniform  of  Dick's  own  regiment,  and  were  presum- 
ably under  his  orders,  professionally  if  not  in  private 
life.  Some  of  them  were  amazingly  patronising  and 
self-possessed,  and  these  did  not  ask  Cicely  to  dance 
again.  She  felt,  when  they  returned  her  to  her 
mother,  that  she  had  not  been  a  success  with  them. 
Others  were  boyish  and  diffident,  and  with  them  she 
got  on  pretty  well.  With  one,  a  modest  child  of 
nineteen  or  so  with  a  high-sounding  title,  she  was 
almost  maternally  friendly,  and  he  seemed  to  cling  to 
her  as  a  refuge  from  a  new  and  bewildering  world. 


A   COURT   BALL  9 

They  ate  ices  together — he  told  her  that  he  had 
been  brought  up  at  home  in  Ireland  under  a  priest, 
and  had  never  eaten  enough  ices  at  a  sitting  until  he 
had  joined  his  regiment  a  fortnight  before.  He  could 
not  dance  well,  indeed  hardly  at  all,  although  he 
confessed  to  having  taken  lessons,  and  his  gratitude 
when  Cicely  suggested  that  they  should  go  and  look 
at  some  of  the  rooms  instead,  warmed  her  heart  to 
him  and  put  their  temporary  friendship  on  the  best 
possible  footing. 

They  stayed  together  during  three  dances,  went 
out  on  to  the  terrace,  explored  wherever  they  were 
permitted  to  explore,  paid  two  visits  to  the  buffet, 
and  enjoyed  themselves  much  in  the  same  way  as 
if  they  had  been  school-children  surreptitiously 
breaking  loose  from  an  assembly  of  grown-ups.  The 
boy  became  volubly  friendly  and  bubbhng  over  with 
unexpected  humour  and  high  spirits.  He  tried  to 
persuade  Cicely  to  stay  away  from  the  ball-room  for 
a  fourth  dance.  Nobody  would  miss  them,  he  ex- 
plained. But  she  said  she  must  go  back,  and  when 
they  joined  the  crowd  again  her  partner  was  haled 
off  with  a  frightened  look  to  the  royal  circle,  and  she 
found  her  mother  standing  up  before  the  seat  on 
which  she  had  sat  all  the  evening  searching  anxiously 
for  her  with  her  eyes,  and  her  father  by  her 
side. 

An  old  man,  looking  small  and  shrunken  in  his 
heavy  uniform,  but  otherwise  full  of  life  and  kindli- 
ness, with  twinkling  eyes  and  a  short  white  beard. 


10      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

was  with  them,  and  she  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief, 
for  if  she  was  not  frightened  of  what  her  mother 
might  say  about  her  long  absence,  she  rather  dreaded 
the  comments  her  father  might  be  pleased  to  pass  on 
it.  But  her  kinsman.  Lord  Meadshire,  Lord-Lieu- 
tenant of  the  county,  a  great  magnate  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  was  to  her  just  a  very  kind  and  playful 
old  man,  whose  jokes  only,  because  of  their  inherent 
feebleness,  caused  her  any  discomfort.  Cousin  Hum- 
phrey would  preserve  her  from  the  results  of  her 
fault  if  she  had  committed  one. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  an  affectionate,  rather 
asthmatical  voice,  "  you've  brought  us  some  of  the 
Meadshire  roses,  eh,  what.?  Hope  you're  enjoying 
yourself.  If  you  had  come  a  little  earlier,  I  would 
have  asked  you  to  dance  with  me." 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long,  Cicely  ?  "  asked 
her  mother,  but  the  twinkle  in  Lord  Meadshire's  eyes 
showed  that  a  joke  was  in  progress,  and  he  broke 
in  hurriedly,  "  Forty  or  fifty  years  earlier,  I  mean, 
my  dear,"  and  he  chuckled  himself  into  a  fit  of 
coughing. 

The  Squire  was  not  looking  quite  pleased,  but 
whatever  the  cause  of  his  displeasure  it  was  not, 
apparently.  Cicely's  prolonged  absence,  for  he  also 
asked  if  she  was  enjoying  herself,  and  looked  at  her 
with  some  pride  and  fondness.  Going  home  in  the 
carriage,  she  learned  later  that  Lord  Meadshire,  who 
would  have  done  a  great  deal  more  to  provide  her 
with  social  gaiety  if  he  had  not  been  living,  now, 


A    COURT    BALL  11 

mostly  in  retirement  with  an  invalid  wife,  had  pro- 
cured those  commands  which  had  brought  them  up  to 
London,  and  are  not  generally  bestowed  unasked  on 
the  belongings  of  a  country  squire,  however  impor- 
tant he  may  be  in  the  midst  of  his  own  posses- 
sions. 

Lord  Meadshire  staj^ed  wdth  them  for  some  little 
time  and  pointed  out  to  her  some  of  the  notabilities 
and  the  less  familiar  royalties.  Then  Dick  came  up 
and  took  her  away  to  dance  again.  After  that  she 
sat  by  her  mother's  side  until  the  end.  She  saw  the 
boy  with  whom  she  had  made  friends  eying  her 
rather  wistfully.  He  had  danced  a  quadrille  with  a 
princess,  and  the  experience  seemed  so  to  have  shat- 
tered his  nerve  that  he  was  not  equal  to  making  his 
way  to  her  to  ask  her  to  bear  him  company  again,  and 
she  could  not  very  well  beckon  him,  as  she  felt  inclined 
to  do.  The  ball  became  rather  dull,  although  she 
looked  a  good  deal  at  the  King  and  Queen  and 
thought  how  extraordinary  it  was  that  she  should  be 
in  the  same  room  with  them. 

Before  she  had  quite  realised  that  it  had  begun, 
the  ball  was  over.  The  band  played  "  God  save  the 
King "  again.  Everybody  stood  up  and  the  royal 
procession  was  formed  and  went  away  to  supper. 
With  the  light  of  royalty  eclipsed,  her  own  supper 
seemed  an  ordinary  affair.  At  country  dances  she 
had  shirked  it  whenever  she  could,  taking  advantage 
of  a  clearer  floor  to  dance  with  some  willing  partner 
right  through  a  valse  or  a  two-step  from  beginning 


12      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

to  end.  After  supper  she  danced  once  or  twice,  but 
as  she  drove  back  to  the  very  private  hotel  at  about 
half-past  one,  she  only  felt  as  if  she  had  not  danced 
nearly  enough,  and  as  she  undressed  she  hardly  knew 
whether  she  had  enjoyed  herself  or  not. 


CHAPTER   II 

IN   THE  BAY   OF  BISCAY 

On  the  night  on  which  Cicely  Clinton  was  enjoying 
herself  at  the  Court  Ball,  the  Punjaiib  homeward 
bound  from  Australia  via  Colombo  and  the  Suez 
Canal  was  steaming  through  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
which,  on  this  night  of  June  had  prepared  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  the  Punjaub's  numerous  passengers  by 
lying  calm  and  still  under  a  bright  moon. 

Two  men  were  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  upper 
deck,  watching  the  phosphorescent  gleam  of  the 
water  as  it  slid  past  beneath  them,  and  talking  as 
intimate  friends.  They  were  Ronald  Mackenzie,  the 
explorer,  returning  home  after  his  adventurous  two 
years'  expedition  into  the  wilds  of  Tibet,  and  Jim 
Graham,  whose  home  was  at  Mountfield,  three  miles 
away  from  Kencote,  where  the  Clintons  lived.  They 
were  not  intimate  friends,  in  spite  of  appearances. 
They  had  joined  the  ship  together  at  Colombo,  and 
found  themselves  occupying  the  same  cabin.  But  ac- 
quaintanceship ripens  so  fast  on  board  ship  that 
the  most  dissimilar  characters  may  adhere  to  one 
another  for  as  long  as  a  voyage  lasts,  although  they 
may  never  meet  again  afterwards,  nor  particularly 
wish  to. 

Mackenzie   was   a   tall,   ruggedly   fashioned   man, 

13 


14      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

with  greying  hair  and  a  keen,  bold  face.  Jim 
Graham  was  more  slightly  built.  He  had  an  open, 
honest  look;  he  was  rather  deliberate  in  speech,  and 
apparently  in  thought,  for  in  conversation  he  would 
often  pause  before  speaking,  and  he  sometimes  ig- 
nored a  question  altogether,  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
it,  or  had  not  understood  it.  There  were  those  who 
called  him  stupid ;  but  it  was  usually  said  of  him  that 
he  was  slow  and  sure.  He  had  a  rather  ugly  face, 
but  it  was  that  pleasant  ugliness  which,  with  a  well- 
knit  athletic  body,  clear  eyes  and  a  tanned  skin,  is 
hardly  distinguishable,  in  a  man,  from  good  looks. 

They  were  talking  about  London.  "  I  can  smell 
it  and  see  it,"  said  Mackenzie.  "  I  hope  it  will  be 
raining  when  I  get  home.  I  like  the  wet  pavements, 
and  the  lights,  and  the  jostling  crowds.  Lord! 
it  will  be  good  to  see  it  again.  How  I've  pined  for 
it,  back  there !  But  I'll  be  out  of  it  again  in  a  month. 
It's  no  place  for  a  man  like  me,  except  to  get  back 
to  every  now  and  then." 

"  That's  how  most  of  us  take  it,"  said  Jim,  "  unless 
we  have  to  work  there.  I'm  glad  I  haven't  to,  though 
I  enjoy  it  well  enough  for  a  week  or  two,  occa- 
sionally." 

"  Do  you  live  in  the  country  all  the  year  round.?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mackenzie  threw  him  a  glance  which  seemed  to 
take  him  in  from  top  to  toe.  "  What  do  you  do .?  " 
he  asked. 

Jim  Graham  paused  for  a  moment  before  replying. 


IN    THE    BAY    OF    BISCAY  15 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do,"  he  said.     "  I've  got  my 
place  to  look  after." 

"That  doesn't  take  you  all  your  time,  does  it?" 

"  It  takes  a  good  deal  of  it.  And  I'm  on  the 
bench." 

"  That  means  sending  poor  devils  to  prison  for 
poaching  your  game,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  Jim,  without  a  smile. 

"  I  suppose  what  it  all  does  mean  is  that  you  live 
in  a  big  country  house  and  shoot  and  hunt  and  fish 
to  your  heart's  content,  with  just  enough  work  to 
keep  you  contented  with  yourself.  By  Jove,  some 
men  are  lucky!  Do  you  know  what  my  life  has 
been.?" 

"  I  know  you  have  been  through  many  adventures 
and  done  big  things,"  said  Jim  courteously. 

"  Well,  I'm  obliged  to  you  for  putting  it  like  that. 
Seems  to  me  I  didn't  put  my  idea  of  your  life  quite 
so  nicely,  eh?  "  He  stood  up  and  stretched  his  tall 
figure,  and  laughed.  "  I'm  a  rough  diamond,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  mind  saying  so,  because  it's  plain 
enough  for  any  one  to  see.  I  sometimes  envy  people 
like  you  their  easy  manners ;  but  I've  got  to  be  con- 
tent with  my  own ;  and  after  all,  they  have  served  my 
turn  well  enough.  Look  at  us  two.  I  suppose  I'm 
about  ten  years  older  than  you,  but  I  had  made  my 
name  when  I  was  your  age.  You  were  bom  in  a 
fine  country  house." 

"  Not  so  very  fine,"  said  Jim. 

"  Well,  pretty  fine  compared  to  the  house  I  was 


16      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

bom  in,  which  was  the  workhouse.  You  were  edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  Christchurch,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing " 

"  I  don't  want  to  spoil  any  comparison  you  are 
going  to  make,"  said  Jim,  "  but  I  was  at  Winchester 
and  New  College." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Mackenzie.  "  I  was  dragged 
up  at  the  workhouse  school  till  I  was  twelve.  Then 
I  ran  away  and  sold  papers  in  the  streets,  and  any- 
thing else  that  I  could  pick  up  a  few  coppers  by — 
except  steal.  I  never  did  that.  I  always  made  up 
my  mind  I'd  be  a  big  man  some  day,  and — I'm  glad 
I  didn't  steal." 

"  I  didn't  either,  you  know,"  said  Jim,  "  although 
I'm  not  a  big  man,  and  never  shall  be." 

"  Ah,  that's  where  the  likes  of  me  scores.  You've 
no  call  to  ambition.  You  have  everything  you  can 
want  provided  for  you." 

"  There  have  been  one  or  two  big  men  bom  as  I 
was,"  said  Jim.  "  But  please  go  on  with  your  story. 
When  did  you  go  on  your  first  journey.?  " 

"  When  I  was  sixteen.  I  looked  much  older.  I 
shipped  before  the  mast  and  went  out  to  Australia, 
and  home  round  Cape  Horn.  By  Jove,  I  shan't 
forget  that.  The  devil  was  in  the  wind.  We  were 
five  months  coming  home,  and  nearly  starved  to 
death,  and  worked  till  we  were  as  thin  as  hungry 
cats.  Then  I  shipped  with  the  Boyle-Geering  ex- 
pedition— you  know — North  Pole,  and  three  years 
trying   to   get   there.      Then   I   tried   a    change   of 


IN    THE    BAY    OF   BISCAY  17 

climate  and  went  to  Central  Africa  with  Freke.  I 
was  his  servant,  got  his  bath,  shaved  him,  brushed 
his  clothes — he  was  always  a  bit  of  a  dandy,  Freke, 
and  lived  like  a  gentleman,  though  I  don't  believe  he 
was  any  better  than  I  was  when  he  started;  but  he 
could  fight  too,  and  there  wasn't  his  equal  with  nig- 
gers. We  had  trouble  that  trip,  and  the  men  who 
went  out  with  him  were  a  rotten  lot.  They'd  found 
the  money,  or  he  wouldn't  have  taken  them.  He 
knew  a  man  when  he  saw  one.  When  we  came  home 
I  was  second  in  command. 

"  It  was  easy  after  that.  I  led  that  expedition 
through  Uganda  when  I  was  only  twenty-five ;  and 
the  rest — well,  the  rest  I  dare  say  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jim.  "  You've  done  a 
lot." 

"  Not  so  bad,  eh,  for  a  workhouse  brat.''  " 

"  Not  so  bad  for  anybody." 

"  I'm  up  top  now.  I  used  to  envy  lots  of  people. 
Now  most  people  envy  me." 

Jim  was  silent. 

Mackenzie  turned  to  him.  "  I  suppose  you've  had 
a  pretty  easy  time  travelling,"  he  said.  There  was 
a  suspicion  of  a  sneer  on  his  long  thin  lips. 

"  Pretty  easy,"  said  Jim. 

"  Ah !  Your  sort  of  travelling  is  rather  different 
from  mine.  If  you  had  been  roughing  it  in  Tibet 
for  the  last  two  years  you  would  be  pretty  glad  to 
be  getting  back." 

"  I'm  glad  to  be  getting  back  as  it  is." 


18      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Mackenzie  turned  and  leaned  over  the  rail  again. 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  don't  envy  you  a  bit 
after  all,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  no  friends  in  Eng- 
land. I'm  not  a  man  to  make  friends.  The  big-wigs 
will  take  me  up  this  time.  I  know  that  from  what 
I've  seen.  I  shall  be  a  lion.  I  suppose  I  shall  be  able 
to  go  anywhere  I  like.  But  there's  nowhere  I  want 
to  go  to  particularly,  when  I've  had  enough  of  Lon- 
don. You've  got  your  country  home.  Lord,  how 
I've  thought  of  the  English  country,  in  summer  time ! 
Thirsted  for  it.  But  it  has  to  belong  to  you,  in  a 
way.  I've  a  good  mind  to  buy  a  little  place — I  shall 
be  able  to  afford  it  when  my  book  comes  out.  But  I 
should  want  a  wife  to  keep  it  warm  for  me.  You're 
not  married,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No." 

"Going  to  be?" 

Jim  made  no  reply. 

Mackenzie  laughed.  "  Mustn't  ask  questions,  I 
suppose,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a  rough  diamond,  Graham. 
Got  no  manners,  you  see.  Never  had  any  one  to 
teach  'em  to  me.     I  apologise." 

"  No  need  to,"  said  Jim. 

There  was  silence  for  a  space.  The  great  round 
moon  shone  down  and  silvered  the  long  ripples  on  the 
water. 

"  I  don't  mind  answering  your  question,"  said  Jim, 
looking  out  over  the  sea.  "  There  are  some  country 
neighbours  of  mine.  One  of  the  sons  is  my  chief  pal. 
We  were  brought  up  together,  more  or  less.     He's 


IN    THE    BAY   OF    BISCAY  19 

going  to  marry  my  sister.     And — well,  I  hope  I'm 
going  to  marry  his." 

His  face  changed  a  little,  but  Mackenzie,  looking 
straight  before  him  did  not  notice  it.  "  Sounds  a 
capital  arrangement,"  he  said  drily. 

Jim  flushed,  and  drew  himself  up.  "  Well,  I  think 
I'll  be  turning  in,"  he  said. 

Mackenzie  faced  him  quickly.  "  Tell  me  all  about 
it,"  he  said.  "  How  old  is  she?  You  have  known  her 
all  your  life.  When  did  you  first  find  out  you  wanted 
to  marry  her?    When  are  you  going  to  be  married?  " 

Jim  looked  at  him  squarely.  "  You  are  taking 
liberties,"  he  said. 

Mackenzie  laughed  again — his  harsh,  unamused 
laugh.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  One  has  to  be  as 
delicate  as  a  fine  lady  talking  to  fellow^s  like  you. 
It's  not  worth  it.  When  you  Hve  like  a  savage 
half  your  life,  you  sort  of  hunger  after  hearing  about 
things  like  that — people  living  in  the  country,  falling 
in  love  and  getting  married,  and  going  to  church 
every  Sunday — all  the  simple,  homely  things.  A  man 
without  all  the  nonsense  about  good  form  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing — a  man  who'd  done  things — he  would 
know  why  you  asked  him,  and  he  would  know  he 
couldn't  find  anybody  better  to  tell  his  Httle  happy 
secrets  to." 

"  Oh,  well,"   said  Jim,   slightly   mollified. 
"  I  dare  say  you're  right,  though,"  said  Mackenzie. 
"  One  doesn't  blab  to  every  stranger.     Even  I  don't, 
and  I'm  a  rough  diamond,  as  I've  told  you." 


so      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  Yes,  you've  told  me  that." 

"  Is  the  fellow  who  is  going  to  marry  your  sister  a 
country  gentleman,  too?  " 

"  No.  His  father  is.  He's  a  younger  son.  He's 
a  doctor." 

"  A  doctor !  Isn't  that  a  funny  thing  for  a  country 
gentleman's  son  to  be.''  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is.  He's  a  clever  fellow. 
He  went  in  for  science  at  Oxford,  and  got  keen." 

"  That's  good  hearing.  I  like  to  hear  of  men  get- 
ting keen  about  a  real  job.  You  might  tell  me  about 
him,  if  I'm  not  taking  another  liberty  in  asking." 

"  Oh,  look  here,  Mackenzie,  I'm  sorry  I  said  that. 
I  didn't  understand  why  you  asked  what  you  did." 

"  I've  told  you.  I  like  to  hear  about  everything 
that  goes  on  in  the  world.  It  isn't  curiosity,  and 
yet  in  a  way  it  is.  I'm  curious  about  everything 
that  goes  on — everywhere.  It  isn't  impertinent  curi- 
osity, anyway." 

"  I  see  that.  I'll  tell  you  about  Walter  Clinton. 
He's  a  good  chap.  His  father  has  a  fine  place  next 
to  mine.  He's  a  rich  man.  His  family  has  been  there 
since  the  beginning  of  all  things.  Walter  is  just  my 
age.     We've  always  been  a  lot  together." 

"  Is  there  a  large  family  ?  What  do  his  brothers 
do.?" 

"  There's  Dick,  the  eldest  son.  He's  in  the  Guards. 
There's  Humphrey  in  the  Foreign  Office,  and  a 
younger  son,  a  sailor.  And — and  there  are  three 
^irls — two  of  them  are  children — twins." 


IN    THE    BAY    OF    BISCAY  21 

"  Well,  now,  aren't  I  right  in  saying  it's  odd  for  a 
son  in  a  family  like  that  to  become  a  doctor?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  in  a  way  you  are,  though  I 
can't  see  why  he  shouldn't  be.  The  fact  is  that  they 
wanted  to  make  a  parson  of  him — there's  a  rather 
good  family  living.     But  he  wasn't  taking  any." 

"  Ah !  I  thought  I  knew  something  about  your 
country  gentry.  Well,  I  admire  the  doctor.  Was 
there  a  row.'^  " 

"  His  father  was  rather  annoyed.  Perhaps  it's  not 
to  be  wondered  at.  His  half-brother  is  Rector  at 
Kencote  now,  and  when  he  dies  they'll  have  to  give 
the  living  to  a  stranger.  Of  course  they  would  rather 
have  one  of  the  family." 

"  It's  like  a  chapter  in  a  book — one  of  the  long, 
easy  ones,  all  about  country  life  and  the  squire  and 
the  parson.  I  love  'em.  And  the  doctor  is  going 
to  marry  your  sister.  Can  I  give  'em  a  skin  for  a 
wedding  present .?  " 

"  I'm  sure  they  would  be  gratified.  You'd  better 
come  down  and  make  their  acquaintance." 

"  I'll  do  that.  I'd  like  to  come  and  see  you, 
Graham;  and  you  mustn't  mind  my  roughness  peep- 
ing out  occasionally.  I  haven't  had  many  chances  in 
life." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Jim  said,  "  Walter 
Clinton's  sister  comes  next  to  him  in  the  family. 
She's  six  or  seven  years  younger.  Of  course,  I've 
known  her  ever  since  she  was  a  baby.  When  I 
came  back  from  Oxford  one  summer  vac,  I  found 


22      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

her  almost  grown  up.  She  seemed  quite  different 
somehow.  I  was  always  over  there  all  the  summer, 
or  she  was  with  my  sister.  We  fixed  it  up  we  would 
get  married  some  day.  They  laughed  at  us,  and 
said  we  had  better  wait  a  few  years ;  but  of  course 
they  were  pleased,  really,  both  my  people  and  hers, 
though  they  thought  it  a  bit  premature;  she  was 
only  seventeen.  When  I  went  back  to  Oxford  and 
thought  it  over  I  said  to  myself  it  wasn't  quite  fair 
to  tie  her  down  at  that  age.  I  would  wait  and  see. 
So  we  fell  back  to  what  we  had  been  before." 

He  stopped  suddenly.  "  Is  that  all.''  "  asked  Mac- 
kenzie in  some  surprise. 

"  It's  all  at  present." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "  It's  disappointing, 
somehow,"  said  Mackenzie.  "  I  suppose  I  mustn't  ask 
questions,  but  there  are  a  lot  I'd  like  to  ask." 

"  Oh,  ask  away.  When  the  ice  is  once  broken  one 
can  talk.     It  does  one  good  to  talk  sometimes." 

"  Women  talk  to  each  other  about  their  love  af- 
fairs. Men  don't — not  the  real  ones — except  on 
occasions." 

"  AVell,  we'll  let  this  be  an  occasion,  as  you  have 
started  the  subject."  He  laughed  lightly.  "  You've 
got  a  sort  of  power,  Mackenzie.  If  any  one  had  told 
me  yesterday  that  I  should  be  talking  to  you  to- 
night about  a  thing  I  haven't  mentioned  to  a  soul 
for  five  years — except  once  or  twice  to  Walter  Clin- 
ton— I  should  have  stared  at  them.  I'm  not  generally 
supposed  to  be  communicative." 


IN   THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY  23 

"  It's  impersonal,"  said  Mackenzie,  "  like  telling 
things  to  a  priest.  I'm  not  in  the  same  world  as 
you.  Five  years,  is  it?  Well,  now,  what  on  earth 
have  you  been  doing  ever  since  .'^  She's  not  too  young 
to  marry  now." 

"  No.  I  was  at  Oxford  a  year  after  what  I  told 
you  of.  Then  I  went  for  a  year  to  learn  estate 
management  on  my  uncle's  property.  When  I  came 
home  I  thought  I  would  fix  it  up  with  my  father — 
he  was  ahve  then.  He  said,  wait  a  year  longer. 
He  was  beginning  to  get  ill,  and  I  suppose  he  didn't 
want  to  face  the  worry  of  making  arrangements  till 
he  got  better.  But  he  never  got  better,  and  within 
a  year  he  died." 

"  And  then  you  were  your  own  master.  That's 
two  years  ago,  isn't  it.^  And  here  you  are  coming 
back  from  a  year's  trip  round  the  world.  You  seem 
to  be  pretty  slow  about  things." 

"  One  doesn't  become  one's  own  master  immedi- 
ately one  succeeds  to  the  ownership  of  land.  These 
death  duties  have  altered  all  that.  I  shan't  be  free 
for  another  year.  Then  I  hope  you  will  come  to  my 
wedding,  Mackenzie." 

"  Thanks.  Didn't  the  young  lady  object  to  keep- 
ing it  all  hanging  on  for  so  long?  " 

Jim  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
a  little  stiffly,  "  I  wrote  to  her  from  Oxford  when  I 
had  thought  things  over.  I  thought  it  wasn't  fair  to 
tie  her  up  before  I  was  ready  to  marry,  and  she  so 
young." 


^4      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  And  that  means  that  you  have  never  allowed 
yourself  to  make  love  to  her  since." 

"  Yes,  it  means  that." 

"  And  yet  you  have  been  in  love  with  her  all  the 
time.?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  shows  a  greater  amount  of  self-control 
than  most  people  possess — certainly  a  good  deal 
more  than  I  possess.    I  suppose  you  are  sure  of  her." 

Jim  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  he  said  presently, 
*'  If  it  wasn't  for  the  death  duties  I  should  have 
hoped  to  be  married  before  this." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  understand,"  said 
Mackenzie.  "  I  suppose  you  live  in  much  the  same 
way  as  your  father  did  before  you." 

"  Yes.     My  mother  lives  with  me,  and  my  sister." 

"  Well,  surely  you  could  get  married  if  you  wanted 
to.  You've  got  your  house  and  everything,  even 
if  there  isn't  quite  so  much  money  to  spend  for  a 
bit.  And  as  for  ready  money — it  doesn't  cost  noth- 
ing to  travel  for  a  year  as  you're  doing." 

"  Oh,  an  uncle  of  mine  paid  for  that,"  said  Jim. 
•'  I  got  seedy  after  my  father's  death.  There  was  a 
lot  of  worry,  and — and  I  was  fond  of  the  old  man. 
The  doctors  told  me  to  go  off.  I'm  all  right  now. 
As  for  the  rest — well,  there  are  such  things  as 
jointures  and  dowries.  No,  I  couldn't  marry,  giving 
my  wife  and  my  mother  and  sister  everything  they 
ought  to  have,  before  another  year.  Even  then  it 
will  be  a  close  thing ;  I  shall  have  to  be  careful." 


IN    THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY  25 

They  fell  silent.  The  dark  mass  of  the  ship's 
hull  beneath  them  slipped  on  through  the  water, 
drawing  ever  nearer  towards  home.  The  moon 
climbed  still  higher  into  the  sky.  "  Well,  we've  had 
an  interesting  talk,"  said  Mackenzie,  drawing  himself 
up.  "  What  you  have  told  me  is  all  so  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  anything  that  would  ever  happen  in  my 
life.  If  I  wanted  to  marry  a  girl  I  should  marry  her, 
and  let  the  money  go  hang.  She'd  have  to  share 
and  share.  But  I  dare  say  when  I  want  a  thing 
I  want  it  for  the  moment  a  good  deal  more  than  you 
do ;  and,  generally,  I  see  that  I  get  it.  Now  I  think 
I  shall  turn  in.     Give  me  ten  minutes." 

He  went  down  to  the  cabin  they  both  occupied. 
As  he  undressed  he  said  to  himself,  "  Rather  a 
triumph,  drawing  a  story  like  that  from  a  fellow 
like  that.  And  Lord,  what  a  story !  He  deserves  to 
lose  her.     I  should  like  to  hear  her  side  of  it." 

Jim  Graham  smoked  another  cigarette,  walking 
round  the  deck.  He  felt  vaguely  dissatisfied  with 
himself  for  having  made  a  confidant  of  Mackenzie, 
and  at  the  same  time  relieved  at  having  given  vent 
to  what  he  had  shut  up  for  so  long  in  the  secret 
recesses  of  his  mind. 

A  day  or  two  later  the  two  men  parted  at  Tilbury. 
They  had  not  again  mentioned  the  subject  of  their 
long  conversation  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  CLINTONS  OF   KENCOTE 

Cicely  was  returning  home  with  her  father  and 
mother  after  her  short  taste  of  the  season's  gaieties. 
It  was  pleasant  to  lean  back  in  a  corner  of  the  rail- 
way carriage  and  look  at  the  rich  Meadshire  country, 
so  familiar  to  her,  running  past  the  window.  She  had 
not  wanted  to  go  home  particularly,  but  she  was 
rather  glad  to  be  going  home  all  the  same. 

The  country  in  South  Meadshire  is  worth  looking 
at.  There  are  deep-grassed  water-meadows,  kept 
green  by  winding  rivers ;  woods  of  beech  and  oak ; 
stretches  of  gorse  and  bracken ;  no  hills  to  speak  of, 
but  gentle  rises,  crowned  sometimes  by  an  old  church, 
or  a  pleasant-looking  house,  neither  very  old  nor 
very  new,  very  large  nor  very  small.  The  big  houses, 
and  there  are  a  good  many  of  them,  lie  for  the  most 
part  in  what  may  be  called  by  courtesy  the  valleys. 
You  catch  a  glimpse  of  them  sometimes  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  line,  which  seems  to  have  shown 
some  ingenuity  in  avoidhig  them,  standing  in  wide, 
well-timbered  parks,  or  peeping  from  amongst  thicker 
trees,  with  their  court  of  farm  and  church  and  clus- 
tered village,  in  dignified  seclusion.  For  the  rest, 
there  are  picturesque  hamlets;  cottages  with  bright 

26 


THE    CLINTONS    OF    KENCOTE      27 

gardens ;  children,  and  fluttering  clothes-lines ;  pigs 
and  donkeys  and  geese  on  the  cropped  commons ;  a 
network  of  roads  and  country  lanes  ;  and  everywhere 
a  look  of  smiling  and  contented  well-being,  which 
many  an  English  county  of  higher  reputation  for 
picturesque  scenery  might  envy. 

The  inhabitants  of  South  Meadshire  will  tell  you 
that  it  is  one  of  the  best  counties  for  all-round 
sport.  Game  is  preserved,  but  not  over-preserved, 
and  the  mixture  of  pasture  and  arable  land  and 
frequent  covert,  while  it  does  not  tempt  the  fox- 
hunting Londoner,  breeds  stout  foxes  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  those  who  know  every  inch  of  it ;  and  there 
is  enough  grass,  enough  water,  and  stiff  enough  fences 
to  try  the  skill  of  the  boldest,  and  to  provide  occa- 
sionally such  a  run  as  from  its  comparative  rarity 
accords  a  gratification  unknown  to  the  frequenter  of 
the  shires.  Big  fish  are  sometimes  caught  in  the 
clear  streams  of  South  Meadshire,  and  they  are 
caught  by  the  people  who  own  them,  or  by  their 
friends.  For  in  this  quiet  comer  of  England  the 
life  of  the  hall  and  the  village  still  goes  on  unchanged. 
At  the  meets — on  lawn,  at  cross-road,  or  by  covert- 
side — everybody  knows  everybody  else,  at  least  by 
sight ;  neighbours  shoot  with  one  another  and  not 
with  strangers ;  and  the  small  fry  of  the  countryside 
get  their  share  of  whatever  fun  is  going  on. 

In  the  middle  of  this  pleasant  land  lies  the  manor 
of  Kencote,  and  a  good  many  fat  acres  around  it, 
which  have  come  to  the  Clintons  from  time  to  time, 


28      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

either  by  lucky  marriages  or  careful  purchase,  dur- 
ing the  close  upon  six  hundred  years  they  have  been 
settled  there.  For  they  are  an  old  family  and  in 
their  way  an  important  one,  although  their  actual 
achievements  through  all  the  centuries  in  which  they 
have  enjoyed  wealth  and  local  consideration  fill  but 
a  small  page  in  their  family  history. 

The  Squire  had,  in  the  strong  room  of  the  Bath- 
gate and  Medchester  Bank,  in  deed-boxes  at  his 
lawyers,  and  in  drawers  and  chests  and  cupboards 
in  his  house,  papers  worthy  of  the  attention  of  the 
antiquary.  From  time  to  time  they  did  engage  the 
antiquary's  attention,  and,  scattered  about  in  bound 
volumes  of  antiquarian  and  genealogical  magazines, 
in  the  proceedings  of  learned  societies,  and  in  county 
histories,  you  may  find  the  fruits  of  much  careful  and 
rewaj'ding  research  through  these  various  documents. 
When  the  Squire  was  approached  by  some  one  who 
wished  to  write  a  paper  or  read  a  paper,  or  compile 
a  genealogy,  or  carry  out  any  project  for  the  pur- 
poses of  which  it  was  necessary  to  gain  access  to  the 
Clinton  archives,  he  would  express  his  annoyance  to 
his  family.  He  would  say  that  he  wished  these  people 
would  let  him  alone.  The  fact  was  that  there  were 
so  few  really  old  families  left  in  England,  that  people 
like  himself  who  had  lived  quietly  on  their  property 
for  eight  or  nine  hundred  years,  or  whatever  it  might 
be,  had  to  bear  all  the  brunt  of  these  investigations, 
and  it  was  really  becoming  an  infernal  nuisance. 
But  he  would  always  invite  the  antiquary  to  Kencote, 


THE   CLINTONS   OF   KENCOTE      29 

give  him  a  bottle  of  fine  claret  and  his  share  of  a 
bottle  of  fine  port,  and  every  facility  for  the  pursuit 
of  his  inquiries. 

A  History  of  the  Ancient  and  Knightly  Family 
of  Clinton  of  Kencote  in  the  County  of  Meadshirey 
was  compiled  about  a  hundred  years  ago  by  the 
Reverend  John  Clinton  Smith,  M.A.,  Rector  of  Ken- 
cote, and  published  by  Messrs.  Dow  and  Runagate 
of  Paternoster  Row.  It  is  not  very  accurate,  but 
any  one  interested  in  such  matters  can,  with  due 
precaution  taken,  gain  from  it  valuable  information 
concerning  the  twenty-two  generations  of  Clintons 
who  have  lived  and  ruled  at  Kencote  since  Sir  Giles 
de  Clinton  acquired  the  manor  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  I. 

The  learned  Rector  devoted  a  considerable  part 
of  his  folio  volume  to  tracing  a  connection  between 
the  Clintons  of  Kencote  and  other  families  of  Clin- 
tons who  have  mounted  higher  in  the  world.  It  is 
the  opinion  of  later  genealogists  that  he  might  have 
employed  his  energies  to  better  purpose,  but,  in  any 
case,  the  family  needs  no  further  shelter  than  is  sup- 
plied by  its  own  well-rooted  family  tree.  You  will 
find  too,  in  his  book,  the  result  of  his  investigations 
into  his  own  pedigree,  in  which  the  weakest  links 
have  to  bear  the  greatest  strain,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  pedigrees. 

It  remains  only  to  be  said  that  the  Squire,  Edward 
Clinton,  had  succeeded  his  grandfather,  Colonel 
Thomas,  of  whom  you  may  read  in  sporting  maga- 


30      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

zines  and  memoirs,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  had 
always  been  a  rich  man,  and  an  honest  one. 

Kencote  lies  about  six  miles  to  the  south-west 
of  the  old  town  of  Bathgate.  The  whole  parish, 
and  it  is  an  exceptionally  large  one,  belongs  to  the 
Squire,  with  a  good  deal  more  land  besides  in  neigh- 
bouring parishes.  Kencote  House  is  a  big,  rather 
ugly  structure,  and  was  built  early  in  the  eighteenth 
century  after  the  disastrous  fire  which  destroyed  the 
beautiful  old  Tudor  hall  and  nearly  all  its  hoarded 
treasures.  This  catastrophe  is  worth  a  brief  notice, 
for  nowadays  an  untitled  family  often  enjoys  some 
consideration  from  the  possession  of  an  old  and 
beautiful  house,  and  the  Clintons  of  Kencote  would 
be  better  known  to  the  world  at  large  if  they  did  not 
live  in  a  comparatively  new  one. 

It  happened  at  the  dead  of  a  winter  night. 
Young  William  Clinton  had  brought  home  his  bride, 
Lady  Anne,  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Earl 
of  Beechmont,  that  afternoon,  and  there  had  been 
torches  and  bonfires  and  a  rousing  welcome.  No- 
body knew  exactly  how  it  happened,  but  they  awoke 
to  find  the  house  in  flames,  and  most  of  the  household 
too  overcome  by  the  results  of  their  merry-making  to 
be  of  any  use  in  saving  it.  The  house  itself  was  burnt 
to  a  shell,  but  it  was  long  enough  in  the  burning  to 
have  enabled  its  more  valuable  contents  to  have  been 
saved,  if  the  work  had  been  set  about  with  some 
method.  The  young  squire,  in  night-cap,  shirt,  and 
breeches,   whether  mindful   of  his   pedigree   at  that 


THE    CLINTONS    OF   KENCOTE      31 

time  of  excitement,  or  led  by  the  fantastic  spirit  that 
moves  men  in  such  crises,  threw  as  much  of  the  con- 
tents of  his  muniment  room  out  of  the  window  as  he 
had  time  for,  and  the  antiquarians  bless  him  to  this 
day.     Then  he  went  off  to  the  stables,  and  helped 
to  get  out  his  horses.    My  Lady  Anne,  who  was  only 
sixteen,  saved  her  jewels  and  one  or  two  of  her  more 
elaborate  gowns,  and  then  sat  down  by  the  sun-dial 
and  cried.     The  servants  worked  furiously  as  long  as 
the  devouring  flames  allowed  them,  but  when  there 
was  nothing  left  of  Kencote  Hall  but  smouldering, 
unsafe  walls,  under  a  black,  winter  sky,  and  the  piled- 
up  heap  of  things  that  had  been  got  out  into  the 
garden  came  to  be  examined,  it  was  found  to  be  made 
up  chiefly  of  the  lighter  and  less  valuable  pieces  of 
furniture,  a  few  pictures  and  hangings,  many  tumbled 
folios  from  the  library,  kitchen  and  house  utensils, 
and  just  a  few  pieces  of  plate  and  other  valuables 
to  salt  the  whole  worthless  mass. 

So  perished  in  a  night  the  chief  pride  of  the  Clin- 
tons of  Kencote,  and  the  noble  house,  with  its  great 
raftered  hall,  its  carved  and  panelled  chambers,  its 
spoil  of  tapestries  and  furniture,  carpets,  china,  sil- 
ver, pictures,  books,  all  the  possessions  that  had  been 
gathered  from  many  lands  through  many  years,  was 
only  a  memory  that  must  fade  more  and  more  rapidly 
as  time  went  on. 

The  young  couple  went  back  to  her  ladyship's 
father,  not  many  miles  away,  and  Kencote  was  left 
in  its  ruins  for  ten  years   or  so.     Then  my  Lord 


32      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Beechmont  died,  sadly  impoverished  by  unfortunate 
dealings  with  the  stock  of  the  South  Sea  Company, 
the  house  and  land  that  remained  to  him  were  sold, 
and  Kencote  was  rebuilt  with  the  proceeds,  much  as 
it  stands  to-day,  except  that  Merchant  Jack,  the 
father  of  Colonel  Thomas,  bitten  with  the  ideas  of  his 
time,  covered  the  mellow  red  brick  with  a  coating  of 
stucco  and  was  responsible  for  the  Corinthian  porch, 
and  the  ornamental  parapet  surmounted  by  Grecian 
urns. 

Merchant  Jack  had  been  a  younger  son  and  had 
made  his  fortune  in  the  city.  He  was  modern  in  his 
ideas,  and  a  rich  man,  and  wanted  a  house  as  good 
as  his  neighbours.  Georgian  brick,  and  tall,  narrow, 
small-paned  windows  had  gone  out  of  fashion.  So 
had  the  old  formal  gardens.  Those  at  Kencote  had 
survived  the  destruction  of  the  house,  but  they  did  not 
survive  the  devastating  zeal  of  Merchant  Jack. 
They  were  swept  away  by  a  pupil  of  Capability 
Brown's,  who  allowed  the  old  walls  of  the  kitchen 
garden  to  stand  because  they  were  useful  for  growing 
fruit,  but  destroyed  walls  and  terraces  and  old  yew 
hedges  everywhere  else,  brought  the  well-treed  park 
into  relation,  as  he  thought,  with  the  garden,  by 
means  of  sunk  fences,  planted  shrubberies,  laid  down 
vast  lawns,  and  retired  very  well  pleased  with  him- 
self at  having  done  away  with  one  more  old-fashioned, 
out-of-date  garden,  and  substituted  for  it  a  few  more 
acres  of  artificial  ugliness. 

He  did  just  one  thing  that  turned  out  well;  he 


THE    CLINTONS    OF   KENCOTE      33 

made  a  large  lake  in  a  hollow  of  the  park  and  ringed 
it  with  rhododendrons,  which  have  since  grown  to 
enormous  size.  At  the  end  of  it  he  caused  to  be 
built  a  stucco  temple  overhung  with  weeping  ashes, 
designed  "  to  invite  Melancholy."  There  is  no  show- 
ing that  Merchant  Jack  had  any  desire  to  respond 
to  such  an  invitation,  but  it  was  the  fashion  of 
the  time,  and  no  doubt  he  was  pleased  with  the 
idea. 

Merchant  Jack  also  refurnished  the  house  when 
his  architect  had  had  his  way  with  it  and  the  work- 
men had  departed.  A  few  good  pieces  he  kept,  but 
most  of  the  furniture,  which  had  been  brought  into 
the  house  when  it  was  rebuilt  after  the  fire,  dis- 
appeared, to  make  way  for  heavy  mahogany  and  rose- 
wood. Some  of  it  went  down  to  the  dower  house,  a 
little  Jacobean  hall  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  park, 
and  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  the  rest  was  sold  for 
what  it  would  fetch. 

In  all  these  lamentable  activities,  good,  rich,  up- 
to-date  Merchant  Jack  was  only  improving  his  prop- 
erty according  to  the  ideas  of  his  time,  and  had  no 
more  idea  of  committing  artistic  improprieties  than 
those  people  nowadays  who  buy  a  dresser  from  a 
farm-house  kitchen  to  put  in  their  drawing-room, 
and  plaster  the  adjacent  walls  with  soup  plates.  His 
memorial  tablet  in  Kencote  church  speaks  well  of  him 
and  his  memory  must  be  respected. 

But  we  have  left  Edward  Clinton  with  his  wife 
and  daughter  sitting  for  so  long  in  the  train  between 


34.      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Ganton  and  Kencote,  that  we  must  now  return  to 
them  without  any  further  delay. 

Having  got  into  the  railway  carriage  at  the  London 
terminus  as  a  private  gentleman,  of  no  more  account 
than  any  other  first-class  passenger,  and  weighed 
only  by  his  potential  willingness  to  pay  handsomely 
for  attentions  received,  as  the  successive  stages  of 
his  journey  were  accomplished,  he  seemed  to  develop 
in  importance.  At  Ganton,  where  a  change  had  to 
be  made,  although  it  was  twenty  miles  and  more 
from  his  own  parcel  of  earth,  peaked  caps  were 
touched  to  him,  and  the  station-master  himself, 
braided  coat  and  all,  opened  his  carriage  door,  ex- 
pressing, as  he  did  so,  a  hope  that  the  present  fair 
weather  would  continue.  One  might  almost,  until 
one  had  thought  it  over,  have  imagined  him  to  be 
appealing  to  the  Squire  as  one  who  might  take  a 
hand  in  its  continuance  if  he  were  so  minded,  at  any 
rate  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Kencote. 

At  Kencote  itself,  so  busy  was  the  entire  station 
staff  in  helping  him  and  his  belongings  out  of  the 
train,  that  the  signal  for  starting  was  delayed  a  full 
minute,  and  then  given  almost  as  an  after-thought, 
as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  small  importance.  Heads 
were  poked  out  of  carriage  windows,  and  an  imperti- 
nent stranger,  marking  the  delay  and  its  cause,  asked 
the  station-master,  as  he  was  carried  past  him,  where 
was  the  red  carpet.  The  answer  might  have  been 
that  it  was  duly  spread  in  the  thoughts  of  all  who 
conducted  the  Squire  from  the  train  to  his  carriage. 


THE    CLINTONS    OF   KENCOTE      65 

and  was  as  well  brushed  as  if  it  had  been  laid  on  the 
platform. 

The  Squire  had  a  loud  and  affable  word  for 
station-master  and  porters  alike,  and  another  for  the 
groom  who  stood  at  the  heads  of  the  two  fine  greys 
harnessed  to  his  phaeton.  He  walked  out  into  the 
road  and  looked  them  over,  remarking  that  they 
were  the  handsomest  pair  he  had  seen  since  he  had 
left  home.  Then  he  took  the  reins  and  swung  him- 
self up  on  to  his  seat,  actively,  for  a  man  of  his  age 
and  weight.  Mrs.  Clinton  climbed  up  more  slowly 
to  her  place  by  his  side,  Cicely  sat  behind,  and  with 
a  jingle  and  clatter  the  equipage  rolled  down  the  road, 
while  the  groom  touched  his  hat  and  went  back  to  the 
station  omnibus  in  which  Mrs.  Clinton's  maid  was  es- 
tablishing herself  in  the  midst  of  a  collection  of 
wraps  and  little  bags.  For,  unless  it  was  unavoidable, 
no  servant  of  the  Clintons  sat  on  the  same  seat  of  a 
carriage  as  a  member  of  the  family. 

It  was  in  the  drowsiest  time  in  the  afternoon.  The 
sun  shone  on  the  hay-fields,  from  which  the  sound 
of  sharpened  scythes  and  the  voices  of  the  hay- 
makers came  most  musically.  Great  trees  bordered 
the  half-mile  of  road  from  the  station  to  the  village, 
and  gave .  a  grateful  shade.  The  gardens  of  the 
cottages  were  bright  with  June  flowers,  and  the 
broad  village  street,  lined  with  low,  irregular  build- 
ings, picturesque,  but  not  at  all  from  neglected  age, 
seemed  to  be  dozing  in  the  still,  hot  air.  A  curtsy 
at  the  lodge  gates,  a  turn  of  the  Squire's  wrist,  and 


36      THE   SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

they  were  bowling  along  the  well  kept  road  through 
the  park. 

A  minute  more,  and  they  had  clattered  on  to  the 
stones  under  the  big  porch. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  again,  Probin,"  said  the  Squire 
to  his  head  coachman,  who  himself  took  the  reins 
from  his  hands.  "  And  here,  please  God,  we'll  stay 
for  the  present." 


CHAPTER   IV 

CLINTONS    YOUNG    AND    OLD 

The  family  tradition  of  the  Clintons,  whereby  the 
interests  and  occupations  of  the  women  were  strictly 
subordinated  to  those  of  the  men,  had  not  yet  availed 
to  damp  the  spirits  or  curb  the  activities  of  Joan 
and  Nancy,  of  whom  Mrs.  Clinton  had  made  a  simul- 
taneous and  somewhat  belated  present  to  the  Squire 
thirteen  years  before.  Frank,  the  sailor,  the  young- 
est son,  had  been  seven  at  the  time  the  twins  were 
born,  and  Dick  a  young  man  at  Cambridge.  Joan 
and  Nancy  were  still  the  pets  of  the  household,  strong 
and  healthy  pets,  and  unruly  within  the  limits  per- 
mitted them.  Released  from  their  schoolroom,  they 
now  came  rushing  into  the  hall,  and  threw  themselves 
on  to  their  parents  and  their  sister  with  loud  cries 
of  welcome. 

The  Squire  kissed  them  in  turn — they  approached 
him  first  as  in  duty  bound.  It  had  taken  him  three 
or  four  years  to  get  used  to  their  presence,  and 
during  that  time  he  had  treated  them  as  the  sort 
of  unaccountable  plaything  a  woman  brings  into  a 
house  and  a  male  indulgently  winks  his  eye  at,  a 
thing  beneath  his  own  notice,  like  a  new  gown  or 
a  new  poodle,  or  a  new  curate,  but  one  in  which 
she  must  be  permitted,  in  the  foolish  weakness  of 

37 


38      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

her  sex,  to  interest  herself.  Then  he  had  gradually 
begun  to  "  take  notice  "  of  them,  to  laugh  at  their 
childish  antics  and  speeches,  to  quote  them — ^he  had 
actually  done  this  in  the  hunting-field — and  finally 
to  like  to  have  them  pottering  about  with  him  when 
duties  of  investigation  took  him  no  further  than  the 
stables  or  the  buildings  of  the  home  farm.  He  had 
always  kept  them  in  order  while  they  were  with  him ; 
he  had  never  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  they  were, 
after  all,  feminine ;  and  he  had  never  allowed  them 
to  interfere  with  his  more  serious  pursuits.  But  he 
had  fully  accepted  them  as  agreeable  playthings  for 
his  own  lighter  hours  of  leisure,  just  as  he  might 
have  taken  to  the  poodle  or  the  curate,  and  so  treated 
them  still,  although  their  healthy  figures  were  be- 
ginning to  fill  out,  and  if  they  had  been  born  Clintons 
of  a  generation  or  two  before  they  would  have  been 
considered  to  be  approaching  womanhood. 

He  now  greeted  them  with  hearty  affection,  and 
told  them  that  if  they  were  good  girls  they  might 
come  and  look  at  the  pheasants  with  him  when  he 
had  read  his  letters  and  they  had  had  their  tea,  and 
then  took  himself  off  to  his  library. 

Mrs.  Clinton's  greeting  was  less  hearty,  but  not 
less  affectionate.  She  lingered  just  that  second 
longer  over  each  of  them  which  gives  an  embrace 
a  meaning  beyond  mere  convention,  but  she  only 
said,  "  I  must  go  and  see  Miss  Bird.  I  suppose  she 
is  in  the  schoolroom."  She  gathered  up  her  skirts 
and  went  upstairs,  but  when  the  twins  had  given 


CLINTONS   YOUNG   AND   OLD      39 

Cicely  a  boisterous  hug,  they  went  back  to  their 
mother,  and  walked  on  either  side  of  her.  She  was 
still  the  chief  personage  in  their  little  world,  al- 
though their  father  and  even  their  brothers  were  of 
so  much  more  importance  in  the  general  scheme  of 
things.  And  not  even  in  the  presence  of  their  father 
and  brothers  did  they  "  behave  themselves  "  as  they 
did  with  their  mother. 

The  schoolroom  was  at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor, 
down  two  steps  and  round  a  corner.  It  was  a  large 
room,  looking  on  to  the  park  from  two  windows  and 
on  to  the  stable-yard  from  a  third.  There  were 
shelves  containing  the  twins'  schoolbooks  and  story- 
books, a  terrestrial  and  a  celestial  globe,  purchased 
many  years  ago  for  the  instruction  of  their  great- 
aunts,  and  besides  other  paraphernalia  of  learning, 
signs  of  more  congenial  occupations,  such  as  bird- 
cages and  a  small  aquarium,  boxes  of  games,  a  big 
doll's  house  still  in  tenantable  repair  though  seldom 
occupied,  implements  and  materials  for  wood-carving, 
and  in  a  corner  of  the  room  a  toy  fort  and  a  sur- 
prising variety  of  lead  soldiers  on  foot  or  on  horse- 
back. Such  things  as  these  might  undergo  variation 
from  time  to  time.  The  doll's  house  might  disap- 
pear any  day,  as  the  rocking-horse  had  disappeared, 
for  instance,  a  year  before.  But  the  furniture  and 
other  contents  of  the  room  were  more  stable.  It  was 
impossible  to  think  of  their  being  changed ;  they  were 
so  much  a  part  of  it.  The  Squire  never  visited  the 
room,  but  if  he  had  done  so  he  would  have  recognised 


40      THE   SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

it  as  the  same  room  in  which  he  had  been  taught  his 
own  letters,  with  difficulty,  fifty  years  before,  and  if 
any  unauthorised  changes  had  been  made,  he  would 
certainly  have  expressed  surprise  and  displeasure,  as 
he  had  done  when  Walter  had  carried  off  to  Oxford 
the  old  print  of  Colonel  Thomas  on  his  black  horse, 
Satan,  with  a  view  of  Kencote  House,  on  a  slight 
eminence  imagined  by  the  artist,  in  the  background. 
Walter  had  had  to  send  the  picture  back,  and  it 
was  hanging  in  its  proper  place  now,  and  not  likely 
to  be  removed  again. 

Miss  Bird,  commonly  known  as  "  the  old  starling," 
to  whom  Mrs.  Clinton  had  come  to  pay  an  immedi- 
ate visit  upon  entering  the  house,  as  in  duty  bound, 
was  putting  things  away.  She  was  accustomed  to 
say  that  she  spent  her  life  in  putting  things  away 
after  the  twins  had  done  with  them,  and  that  they 
were  more  trouble  to  her  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  had  been.  For  Miss  Bird  had  lived  in  the 
house  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and  had  acted  as 
educational  starter  to  the  whole  race  of  young 
Clintons,  to  Dick,  Humphrey,  Walter,  Cicely,  and 
Frank,  and  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life  whien  the 
twins  had  appeared  on  the  scene  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  a  prolonged  period  of  service.  She  was  a 
thin,  voluble  lady,  as  old  as  the  Squire,  to  whom 
she  looked  up  as  a  god  amongst  mankind;  her 
educational  methods  were  of  an  older  generation  and 
included  the  use  of  the  globes  and  the  blackboard, 
but  she  was  most  conscientious  in  her  duties,  her 


CLINTONS   YOUNG   AND   OLD      41 

religious  principles  were  unexceptionable,  and  she 
filled  a  niche  at  Kencote  which  would  have  seemed 
empty  without  her. 

"  0  Mrs.  Clinton  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  back," 
she  said,  almost  ecstatically,  "  and  you  too  Cicely 
dear — oh  my  a  new  hat  and  such  a  pretty  one !  You 
look  quite  the  town  lady,  upon  my  word  and  how 
did  you  enjoy  the  ball?  you  must  tell  me  all  about 
it  every  word  now  Joan  and  Nancy  I  will  not  put 
away  your  things  for  you  once  more  and  that  I  de- 
clare and  you  hear  me  say  it  you  are  the  most  shock- 
ingly untidy  children  and  if  I  have  told  you  that  once 
I  have  told  you  a  hundred  times  O  Mrs.  Clinton  a 
new  bonnet  too  and  I  declare  it  makes  you  look  five 
years  younger  at  least." 

Mrs.  Clinton  took  this  compliment  equably,  and 
asked  if  the  twins  had  been  good  girls. 

"  Well,  good !  "  echoed  the  old  starling,  "  they 
know  best  whether  they  have  been  good,  of  their 
lessons  I  say  nothing  and  marks  will  show,  but  to 
get  up  as  you  might  say  in  the  dead  of  the  night 
and  let  themselves  down  from  a  window  with  sheets 
twisted  into  a  rope  and  not  fit  to  be  seen  since,  all 
creased,  most  dangerous,  besides  the  impropriety  for 
great  girls  of  thirteen  if  any  one  had  been  passing 
as  I  have  told  them  and  should  be  obliged  to  report 
this  behaviour  to  you  Mrs.  Clinton  on  the  first  op- 
portunity." 

Joan  and  Nancy  both  glanced  at  their  mother 
tentatively.     "  We  were  only  playing  Jacobites  and 


42      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Roundheads,"  said  Joan.  "  It  makes  it  more 
real." 

"  And  it  wasn't  in  the  middle  of  the  night,"  added 
Nancy.    "  It  was  four  o'clock,  and  quite  light." 

"  Why,  you  might  have  killed  yourselves ! "  ex- 
claimed Cicely. 

"  Exactly  what  I  said  the  very  words,"  corrobor- 
ated the  old  starling. 

"  We  tied  the  sheets  very  tight,"  said  Joan. 

"  And  tested  them  thoroughly,"  added  Nancy. 

"  And  we  won't  do  it  again,  mother,"  said  Joan 
coaxingly. 

"  Really,  we  won't,"  said  Nancy  impressively. 

"  But  what  else  will  you  do? "  asked  Mrs.  Clinton. 
"  You  are  getting  too  big  for  these  pranks.  If  your 
father  were  to  hear  of  it,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
what  he  would  say." 

She  knew  pretty  well  that  he  would  have  laughed 
boisterously,  and  told  her  that  he  didn't  want  the 
children  molly-coddled.  Time  enough  for  that  by 
and  by  when  they  grew  up.  And  the  twins  probably 
knew  this  too,  and  were  not  unduly  alarmed  at  the 
implied  threat.  But  there  was  a  quality  in  their 
mother's  displeasure,  rare  as  it  was,  which  made 
them  apprehensive  when  one  of  their  periodical 
outbursts  had  come  to  light.  They  were  not  old 
enough  to  perceive  that  it  was  not  aroused  by  such 
feats  as  the  one  under  discussion,  which  showed  no 
moral  delinquency,  but  only  a  certain  danger  to  life 
and  limb,  now  past.     But  their  experience  did  tell 


CLINTONS    YOUNG   AND    OLD      43 

them  that  misbeha\dour  which  caused  her  displeasure 
was  not  thus  referred  to  their  father,  and  with  many 
embraces  and  promises  of  amendment  they  procured 
future  oblivion  of  their  escapade. 

"  Well,  I  have  done  my  duty,"  said  the  old  starling, 
"  and  very  unpleasant  it  was  to  have  to  welcome 
you  home  with  such  a  story,  Mrs.  Clinton,  and  now 
it  is  all  over  and  done  with  I  will  say  and  am  glad 
to  say  that  it  is  the  only  blot.  And  that  is  what  I 
said  to  both  Joan  and  Nancy  that  it  was  such  a  pity 
to  have  spoilt  everything  at  the  last  moment,  for 
otherwise  two  better  behaved  children  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  find  anywhere." 

At  which  Joan  and  Nancy  both  kissed  the  old 
starling  warmly,  and  she  strained  them  to  her  flat 
but  tender  bosom  and  called  them  her  precious 
pets. 

They  went  with  Cicely  into  her  bedroom  while  she 
"  took  off  her  things."  They  betrayed  an  immense 
curiosity  for  every  detail  of  her  recent  experiences, 
particularly  that  crowning  one  of  the  Court  Ball. 
She  was  exalted  in  their  eyes ;  she  had  long  been 
grown  up,  but  now  she  seemed  more  grown  up  than 
ever,  a  whole  cycle  in  advance  of  their  active,  sexless 
juvenility. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Joan  doubtfully,  fingering 
the  new  hat  which  Cicely  had  taken  off,  "  but  I 
almost  think  it  must  be  rather  fun  to  wear  pretty 
things  sometimes." 

But  Nancy,   the   younger   by   some   minutes,    re- 


44.      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

buked  that  unwholesome  weakness.  "  What  rot, 
Joan,"  she  said  indignantly.  "  Sis,  we  have  made 
up  our  minds  to  ask  mother  if  we  may  wear  serge 
knickerbockers.  Then  we  shall  be  able  to  do  what 
we  like." 

When  this  sartorial  revolution  had  been  dis- 
cussed. Cicely  asked,  "  Has  Muriel  been  over  while 
I  have  been  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Joan.  "  Walter  was  at  Mountfield 
on  Sunday,  and  they  came  over  in  the  afternoon. 
They  prowled  about  together.  Of  course  they  didn't 
want  us." 

"  But  they  had  us  all  the  same,"  said  Nancy,  with 
a  grin.  "  We  stalked  them.  They  kissed  in  the 
Temple,  and  again  in  the  peach-house." 

"  But  there  were  lucid  intervals,"  said  Joan. 
"  They  have  made  up  their  minds  about  something 
or  other ;  we  couldn't  quite  hear  what  it  was.  They 
were  in  the  kitchen  garden,  and  we  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall." 

"  You  weren't  listening,  darling.'' "  hazarded 
Cicely. 

"  Oh,  rather  not !  We  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing. 
But  Nancy  and  I  like  to  pace  up  and  down  the  yew 
walk  in  contemplation,  and  of  course  if  they  liked 
to  pace  up  and  down  by  the  asparagus  beds  at  the 
same  time,  we  couldn't  help  hearing  the  murmur  of 
their  voices." 

"  It  is  something  very  serious,"  said  Nancy. 
"  Walter  is  going  to  tackle  Edward  about  it  at  once. 


CLINTONS    YOUNG   AND    OLD      45 

And  Muriel  is  quite  at  one  with  him  in  the  matter. 
She  said  so." 

"  How  they  do  go  on  together,  those  two !  "  said 
Joan.  "  You  would  think  they  had  never  met  in 
their  lives  until  they  got  engaged  six  months  ago. 
When  they  came  out  of  the  peach-house  Nancy  said, 
'  And  this  is  love ! '    Then  she  ran  away." 

"  Only  because  Walter  ran  after  me,"  said  Nancy. 

"And  Muriel  put  her  arm  round  my  neck,"  con- 
tinued Joan,  "  and  said,  *  O  Joan,  darling!  I  am 
so  happy  that  I  don't  care  who  sees  me.'  Positively 
nauseating,  I  call  it.  You  and  Jim  don't  behave  like 
that,  Sis." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Cicely  primly. 

"  Well,  you're  engaged — or  as  good  as,"  said 
Nancy.  "  But  I  do  rather  wonder  what  Walter  is 
going  to  tackle  Edward  about.  It  can't  be  to 
hurry  on  the  wedding,  for  it's  only  a  month  off 
now." 

"  We  shall  know  pretty  soon,"  said  Joan.  "  Fa- 
ther doesn't  keep  things  to  himself." 

"  No,  I  expect  Edward  will  make  a  deuce  of  a 
row,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Nancy !  "  said  Cicely  sharply,  "  you  are  not  to 
talk  like  that." 

"  Darling !  "  said  Nancy  in  a  voice  of  grieved  ex- 
postulation. "  It  is  what  Walter  said  to  Muriel.  I 
thought  there  couldn't  be  any  harm  in  it." 

The  twins — they  were  called  "  the  twankies  "  by 
their  brothers — went  off  after  tea  in  the  schoolroom 


46      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

to  see  the  young  pheasants  with  their  father.  They 
were  lively  and  talkative,  and  the  Squire  laughed  at 
them  several  times,  as  good-humoured  men  do  laugh 
at  the  prattle  of  innocent  childhood.  Arrived  at  the 
pens  he  entered  into  a  long  and  earnest  conversation 
with  his  head  keeper,  and  the  twins  knew  better  than 
to  interrupt  him  with  artless  prattle  at  such  a  time 
as  that.  But  going  home  again  through  the  dewy 
park,  he  unbent  once  more  and  egged  Nancy  on  to 
imitate  the  old  starling,  at  which  he  roared  melodi- 
ously. He  was  a  happy  man  that  evening.  He  had 
come  back  to  his  kingdom,  to  the  serious  business  of 
life,  which  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  keepers  and 
broods  of  pheasants,  and  to  his  simple,  domestic 
recreations,  much  enhanced  by  the  playful  ways  of 
his  "  pair  of  kittens." 

The  mellow  light  of  the  summer  evening  lay  over 
the  park,  upon  the  thick  grass  of  which  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  were  lengthening.  Sheep  were  feeding 
on  it,  and  it  was  flat  round  the  house  and  rather 
uninteresting.  But  it  was  the  Squire's  own;  he 
had  known  every  large  tree  since  the  earliest  days 
of  his  childhood,  and  the  others  he  had  planted, 
seeing  some  of  them  grow  to  a  respectable  height 
and  girth.  He  would  have  been  quite  incapable  of 
criticising  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  beauty.  The 
irregular  roofs  of  the  stables  and  other  buildings, 
the  innumerable  chimneys  of  the  big  house  beyond 
them,  seen  through  a  gap  in  the  trees  which  hemmed 
it  in  for  the  most  part  on  three  sides,  were  also  his 


CLINTONS   YOUNG   AND    OLD      47 

own,  and  objects  so  familiar  that  he  saw  them  with 
eyes  different  from  any  others  that  could  have  been 
turned  upon  them.  The  sight  of  them  gave  him 
a  sensation  of  pleasure  quite  unrelated  to  their 
gesthetic  or  even  their  actual  value.  They  meant 
home  to  him,  and  everything  that  he  loved  in  the 
world,  or  out  of  it.  The  pleasure  was  always  there 
subconsciously — not  so  much  a  pleasure  as  an  atti- 
tude of  mind — but  this  evening  it  warmed  into  some- 
thing concrete.  "  There's  plenty  of  little  dicky- 
birds haven't  got  such  a  nest  as  my  two,"  he  said  to 
the  twins,  who  failed  to  see  that  this  speech,  which 
they  wriggled  over,  but  privately  thought  fatuous, 
had  the  elements  of  both  poetry  and  religion. 

In  the  meantime  Cicely  had  made  her  way  over 
the  park  in  another  direction  to  visit  her  aunts  in 
the  dower-house,  for  she  knew  they  would  be  itching 
for  an  account  of  her  adventures,  and  she  had  not 
had  time  to  write  to  them  from  London. 

Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura  were  the  only  sur- 
viving representatives  of  the  six  spinster  daughters 
of  Colonel  Thomas  CHnton,  the  Squire's  grand- 
father. One  after  the  other  Aunt  Mary,  Aunt 
EHzabeth,  Aunt  Anna  and  Aunt  CaroHne  had  been 
carried  out  of  the  dark  house  in  which  they  had 
ended  their  blameless  days  to  a  still  darker  and  very 
narrow  house  within  the  precincts  of  Kencote 
church,  and  the  eldest  sister,  now  an  amazingly  aged 
woman,  but  still  in  the  possession  of  all  her  faculties, 
and   the   youngest,   who   although   many   years   her 


48      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

junior,  was  well  over  seventy,  were  all  that  were  left 
of  the  bevy  of  spinster  ladies. 

On  their  father's  death,  now  nearly  forty  years 
ago,  they  had  removed  in  a  body  from  the  big  house 
in  which  they  had  lived  in  a  state  of  subdued  self- 
repression  to  the  small  one  in  which,  for  the  first 
time,  they  were  to  taste  independence.  For  their 
father  had  been  a  terrible  martinet  where  women 
were  concerned,  and  would  as  readily  have  ordered 
Aunt  Ellen  to  bed,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  if  he  had  been 
displeased  with  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  child  of  ten. 
And  if  he  had  ordered  her  she  would  have  gone. 

Some  of  the  rooms  in  the  dower-house  had  been 
occupied  by  the  agent  to  the  Kencote  estate  who  at 
that  time  was  a  bachelor,  and  the  rest  had  been  shut 
up.  The  six  sisters  spent  the  happiest  hours  they 
had  hitherto  known  in  the  arrangement  of  their 
future  lives  and  of  the  beautiful  old  furniture  with 
which  the  house  was  stocked.  The  lives  were  to  be 
active,  regular,  and  charitable.  Colonel  Thomas, 
who  had  allowed  them  each  twenty  pounds  a  year 
for  dress  allowance  and  pocket-money  during  his 
lifetime,  had  astonished  everybody  by  leaving  them 
six  thousand  pounds  apiece  in  his  will,  which  had 
been  made  afresh  a  year  before  his  death.  He  had 
just  then  inherited  the  large  fortune  of  his  younger 
brother,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  paternal  business 
in  Cheapside,  lived  and  died  a  bachelor,  and  saved 
a  great  deal  of  money  every  year.  By  his  previous 
will  they  would  have  had  a  hundred  a  year  each  from 


CLINTONS    YOUNG   AND    OLD      49 

the  estate,  and  the  use  of  the  dower-house.  But  even 
that  would  have  seemed  wealth  to  these  simple  ladies 
as  long  as  they  remained  together,  and  all  of  them 
alive.  For  Colonel  Thomas  had  forgotten,  in  that 
first  will,  to  make  provision  for  the  probability  of 
one  of  them  outliving  the  rest  and  being  reduced  to 
a  solitary  existence  on  a  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
However,  with  fifteen  hundred  a  year  or  so  between 
them,  and  no  rent  to  pay,  they  were  exceedingly  well 
off,  kept  their  modest  carriage,  employed  two  men 
in  their  garden,  and  found  such  pleasures  in  dividing 
their  surplus  wealth  amongst  innumerable  and  de- 
serving charities  that  the  arrival  by  post  of  a  nur- 
seryman's catalogue  excited  them  no  more  than  that 
of  an  appeal  to  subscribe  to  a  new  mission. 

The  beautiful  old  furniture,  huddled  in  the 
disused  rooms  and  in  the  great  range  of  attics  that 
ran  under  the  high-pitched  roof,  gave  them  immense 
happiness  in  the  arrangement.  They  were  not  in 
the  least  alive  to  its  value  at  that  time,  though  they 
had  become  so  in  some  degree  since,  but  kept  rather 
quiet  about  it  for  fear  that  their  nephew  might  wish 
to  carry  some  of  it  off  to  the  great  house.  They 
thought  it  very  old-fashioned  and  rather  absurd,  and 
they  also  held  this  view^  of  the  beautifully  carved 
and  panelled  rooms  of  their  old  house,  which  were 
certainly  too  dark  for  perfect  comfort.  But  they 
disposed  everything  to  the  best  advantage,  and  pro- 
duced without  knowing  it  an  effect  which  no  diligent 
collector    could    have    equalled,    and    which    became 


50      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

still   more    delightful    and    satisfying   as    the   years 
went  on. 

Cicely  walked  across  the  level  park  and  went 
through  a  deep  wood,  entering  by  an  iron  gate  the 
garden  of  the  dower-house,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  built  in  a  clearing,  although  it  was  older  than 
the  oldest  of  the  trees  that  hemmed  it  round.  On 
this  hot  summer  afternoon  it  stood  shaded  and  cool, 
and  the  very  fragrance  of  its  old-fashioned  garden 
seeming  to  be  confined  and  concentrated  by  the 
heavy  foliage.  There  was  not  a  leaf  too  many.  But 
in  the  autumn  it  was  damp  and  close  and  in  the 
winter  very  dark.  A  narrow  drive  of  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  led  straight  from  the  main  road  to  the 
porch  and  showed  a  blue  telescopic  glimpse  of  dis- 
tant country.  If  all  the  trees  had  been  cut  down  in 
front  to  the  width  of  the  house  it  would  have  stood 
out  as  a  thing  of  beauty  against  its  green  back- 
ground, air  and  light  would  have  been  let  into  the 
best  rooms  and  the  pleasant  view  of  hill  and  vale 
opened  up  to  them.  But  the  Squire,  tentatively  ap- 
proached years  before  by  his  affectionate  and  sub- 
missive aunts,  had  decisively  refused  to  cut  down 
any  trees  at  all,  and  four  out  of  the  six  of  them 
had  taken  their  last  look  of  this  world  out  of  one 
or  other  of  those  small-paned  windows  and  seen  only 
a  great  bank  of  laurels — even  those  they  were  not 
allowed  to  cut  down — across  a  narrow  space  of 
gravel,  and  the  branches  of  oaks  not  quite  ripe  for 
felling,  above  them. 


CLINTONS    YOUNG   AND    OLD      51 

Cicely  went  through  a  garden  door  opening  on  to 
an  oak-floored  passage  which  ran  right  through  the 
house,  and  opened  the  door  of  her  aunts'  parlour. 
They  were  sitting  on  either  side  of  the  fireless  grate 
with  their  tea-table  not  yet  cleared  between  them. 
Aunt  Ellen,  ninety-three  years  of  age,  with  a  lace 
cap  on  her  head  and  a  white  silk  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  was  sitting  upright  in  her  low  chair, 
knitting.  She  wore  no  glasses,  and  her  old  hands, 
meagre,  almost  transparent,  with  large  knuckles, 
and  skin  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  polished, 
fumbled  a  little  with  her  needles  and  the  thick  wool. 
Her  eyesight  was  failing,  though  in  the  pride  of  her 
great  age  she  would  not  acknowledge  it ;  but  her 
hearing  was  almost  perfect.  Aunt  Laura,  who  was 
seventy-five,  looked,  except  for  her  hair,  which 
was  not  quite  white,  the  older  of  the  two.  She  was 
bent  and  frail,  and  she  had  taken  to  spectacles  some 
years  before,  to  which  Aunt  Ellen  alluded  every  day 
of  her  life  with  contempt.  They  said  the  same 
things  to  each  other,  on  that  and  on  other  subjects, 
time  after  time.  Every  day  for  years  Aunt  Ellen 
had  said  that  if  dear  Edward  had  only  been  able 
to  cut  down  the  trees  in  front  of  the  house  it  would 
give  them  more  light  and  open  up  the  view,  and 
she  had  said  it  as  if  it  had  only  just  occurred  to 
her.  And  Aunt  Laura  had  replied  that  she  had 
thought  the  same  thing  herself,  and  did  Ellen  remem- 
ber how  dear  Anne,  who  was  always  one  to  say  out 
what  she  wanted,  had  asked  him  if  he  thought  it 


52      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

might  be  done,  but  he  had  said — quite  kindly — that 
the  trees  had  always  been  there,  and  there  they  would 
stay. 

The  two  old  ladies  welcomed  Cicely  as  if  she  had 
been  a  princess  with  whom  it  was  their  privilege  to 
be  on  terms  of  affectionate  intimacy.  She  was,  in 
fact,  a  princess  in  their  little  world,  the  daughter 
of  the  reigning  monarch,  to  whom  they  owed,  and 
gave,  loyal  allegiance.  Aunt  Laura  had  been  up  to 
the  house  that  morning  and  heard  that  they  were 
to  return  by  the  half-past  four  o'clock  train.  They 
had  been  quite  sure  that  Cicely  would  come  to  see 
them  at  once  and  tell  them  all  her  news,  and  they 
had  debated  whether  they  would  wait  for  their  own 
tea  or  not.  They  had,  in  fact,  waited  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  They  told  her  all  this  in  minute  de- 
tail, and  only  by  painstaking  insistence  was  Aunt 
Ellen  herself  prevented  from  rising  to  ring  the  bell 
for  a  fresh  supply  to  be  brought  in.  "  Well,  my 
dear,  if  you  are  quite  sure  you  won't,"  she  said  at 
last,  "  I  will  ring  for  Rose  to  take  the  things  away." 

Cicely  rang  the  bell,  and  Rose,  who  five-and-thirty 
years  before  had  come  to  the  dower-house  as  an 
apple-cheeked  girl  from  the  village  school,  answered 
the  summons.  She  wore  a  cap  with  coloured  ribbons 
— the  two  sisters  still  shook  their  heads  together 
over  her  tendency  to  dressiness — and  dropped  a 
child's  curtsey  to  Cicely  as  she  came  in.  She  had 
been  far  too  well-trained  to  speak  until  she  was 
spoken  to,  but  Aunt  Ellen  said,  "  Here  is  Miss  Clin- 


CLINTONS    YOUNG   AND    OLD      53 

ton  returned  from  London,  Rose,  where  she  has  seen 
the  King  and  Queen."  And  Rose  said,  "  Well,  there, 
miss  I  "  with  a  smile  at  Cicely,  and  before  she  re- 
moved the  tea-tray  settled  the  white  shawl  more 
closely  round  Aunt  Ellen's  shoulders. 

"  Rose  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  when  she 
had  left  the  room,  "  but  I  am  afraid  more  fond  of 
admiration  than  she  should  be.  Well,  dear,  now  tell 
us  all  about  what  you  have  seen  and  done.  But,  first 
of  all,  how  is  your  dear  father?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you.  Aunt  Ellen,"  replied 
Cicely,  "  and  very  pleased  to  get  home,  I  think." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Aunt  Ellen.  "  We  have  all  missed 
him  sorely.  I  am  sure  it  is  wonderful  how  he 
denies  himself  all  kinds  of  pleasure  to  remain  here 
and  do  his  duty.  It  is  an  example  we  should  all 
do  well  to  follow." 

"  When  he  was  quite  a  young  man,"  said  Aunt 
Laura,  "  there  was  no  one  who  was  gayer — of  course 
in  a  nice  way — and  took  his  part  in  everything  that 
was  going  on  in  the  higher  circles  of  the  metropolis. 
Your  dear  Aunt  Elizabeth  used  to  cut  out  the 
allusions  to  him  in  the  Morning  Post,  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  great  occasion  on  which  his  name  was  not 
mentioned." 

"  But  after  two  years  in  his  regiment  he  gave  it 
all  up  to  settle  down  amongst  his  own  people,"  said 
Aunt  Ellen.  "  All  his  life  has  been  summed  up  in 
the  word  '  duty.'  I  wish  there  were  more  like  him, 
but  there  are  not." 


64      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  It  seems  like  yesterday,"  said  Aunt  Laura, 
*'  that  he  joined  the  Horse  Guards  Blue.  We  all 
wished  very  much  to  see  him  in  his  beautiful  uniform, 
which  so  became  him,  and  your  dear  Aunt  Anne, 
who  was  always  the  one  to  make  requests  if  she  saw 
fit,  asked  him  to  bring  it  down  to  Kencote  and  put 
it  on.  Dear  Edward  laughed  at  her,  and  refused 
— quite  kindly,  of  course — so  we  all  took  a  little 
trip  to  London — it  was  the  occasion  of  the  opening 
of  the  International  Reformatory  Exhibition  at 
Islington  by  the  Prince  of  Wales,  as  he  was  then — 
and  your  dear  father  was  in  the  escort.  How  noble 
he  looked  on  his  black  horse!  I  assure  you  we  were 
all  very  proud  of  him." 

Cicely  sat  patiently  silent  while  these  reminis- 
cences, which  she  had  heard  a  hundred  times  before, 
were  entered  upon.  She  looked  at  Aunt  Ellen,  fum- 
bling with  her  knitting-needles,  and  wondered  what 
it  must  be  like  to  be  so  very  old,  and  at  Aunt  Laura, 
who  was  also  knitting,  with  quick  and  expert  fingers, 
and  wondered  if  she  had  ever  been  young. 

*'  Did  the  King  show  your  dear  father  any  special 
mark  of  esteem?"  asked  Aunt  Ellen.  "  It  did  occur 
to  your  Aunt  Laura  and  myself  that,  not  knowing 
how  heavy  are  the  duties  which  keep  him  at  Kencote, 
His  Majesty  might  have  been — ^I  will  not  say  an- 
noyed, because  he  would  not  be  that — but  perhaps 
disappointed  at  not  seeing  him  more  often  about  his 
Court.  For  in  the  days  gone  by  he  was  an  ornament 
of  it,  and  I  have  always  understood,  though  not  from 


CLINTONS    YOUNG    AND    OLD      55 

him,   that  he   enjoyed   special   consideration,   which 
would  only  be  his  due." 

"  The  King  didn't  take  any  notice  of  father,"  said 
Cicely,  with  the  brusque  directness  of  youth,  and 
Aunt  Ellen  seemed  to  be  somewhat  bewildered  at  the 
statement,  not  liking  to  impute  blame  to  her  sov- 
ereign, but  unable  for  the  moment  to  find  any  valid 
excuse  for  him. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  that  sending 
specially — the  invitation  for  all  of  you — but  I  sup- 
pose there  were  a  great  many  people  there." 

Cicely  took  her  opportunity,  and  described  what 
she  had  seen  and  done,  brightly  and  in  detail.  She 
answered  all  her  aunts'  questions,  and  interested  them 
deeply.  Her  visits,  and  those  of  her  mother,  or  the 
twins  with  Miss  Bird,  were  the  daily  enlivenment  of 
the  two  old  ladies,  and  were  never  omitted.  The 
Squire  seldom  went  to  the  dower-house,  but  when  he 
did  look  in  for  a  minute  or  two,  happening  to  pass 
that  way,  they  were  thrown  into  a  flutter  of  pleasure 
and  excitement  which  lasted  them  for  days. 

When  Cicely  took  her  leave  an  hour  later,  Aunt 
Ellen  said :  "  The  consideration  wuth  which  dear 
Edward's  family  treats  us,  sister,  is  something  we 
may  well  be  thankful  for.  I  felt  quite  sure,  and  I 
told  you,  that  some  one  would  come  to  see  us  immedi- 
ately upon  their  return.  Cicely  is  always  so  bright 
and  interesting — a  dear  girl,  and  quite  takes  after 
her  father." 

"  Dear  Anne  used  to  say  that  she  took  after  her 


56      THE   SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

mother,"  said  Aunt  Laura ;  to  which  Aunt  Ellen  re- 
plied :  "  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  Nina ;  she 
has  been  a  good  wife  to  dear  Edward,  though  we  all 
thought  at  the  time  of  their  marriage  that  he  might 
have  looked  higher.  But  compared  with  our  nephew, 
quiet  and  unassuming  as  she  is,  she  has  very  little 
character,  while  Cicely  has  character.  No,  sister. 
Cicely  is  a  Clinton — a  Clinton  through  and  through." 


CHAPTER  V 

MELBURY  PARK 

Family  prayers  at  Kencote  took  place  at  nine  o'clock, 
breakfast  nominally  at  a  quarter  past,  though 
there  was  no  greater  interval  between  the  satisfaction 
of  the  needs  of  the  soul  and  those  of  the  body  than 
was  necessary  to  enable  the  long  string  of  servants 
to  file  out  from  their  seats  under  the  wall,  and  the 
footmen  to  return  immediately  with  the  hot  dishes. 
The  men  sat  nearest  to  the  door  and  frequently 
pushed  back  to  the  dining-room  against  the  last  of 
the  outflowing  tide ;  for  the  Squire  was  ready  for  his 
breakfast  the  moment  he  had  closed  the  book  from 
which  he  had  read  the  petition  appointed  for  the 
day.  If  there  was  any  undue  delay  he  never  failed 
to  speak  about  it  at  once.  This  promptness  and 
certainty  in  rebuke,  when  rebuke  was  necessary,  made 
him  a  well-served  man,  both  indoors  and  out. 

Punctuality  was  rigidly  observed  by  the  Clinton 
family.  It  had  to  be ;  especially  where  the  women 
were  concerned.  If  Dick  or  Humphrey,  when  they 
were  at  home,  missed  prayers,  the  omission  was  al- 
luded to.  If  Cicely,  or  even  Mrs.  Clinton  was  late, 
the  Squire  spoke  about  it.  This  was  more  serious. 
In  the  case  of  the  boys  the  rebuke  hardly  amounted 
to  speaking  about  it.     As  for  the  twins,  they  were 

57 


58      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

never  late.  For  one  thing  their  abounding  physical 
energy  made  them  anything  but  lie-abeds,  and  for 
another,  they  were  so  harried  during  the  ten  minutes 
before  the  gong  sounded  by  Miss  Bird  that  there 
would  have  been  no  chance  of  their  overlooking  the 
hour.  If  they  had  been  late,  Miss  Bird  would  have 
been  spoken  to,  and  on  the  distressing  occasions  when 
that  had  happened,  it  had  put  her,  as  she  said,  all 
in  a  twitter. 

When  it  still  wanted  a  few  minutes  to  the  hour 
on  the  morning  after  the  return  from  London, 
Cicely  was  standing  by  one  of  the  big  open  windows 
talking  to  Miss  Bird,  the  twins  were  on  the  broad 
gravel  path  immediately  outside,  and  two  footmen 
were  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the  appoint- 
ments of  the  table. 

It  was  a  big  table,  although  now  reduced  to  the 
smallest  dimensions  of  which  it  was  capable,  for  the 
use  of  the  six  people  who  were  to  occupy  it.  But 
in  that  great  room  it  was  like  an  island  in  the  midst 
of  a  waste  of  Turkey  carpet.  The  sideboards, 
dinner-wagon,  and  carving-table,  and  the  long  row 
of  chairs  against  the  wall  opposite  to  the  three 
windows  were  as  if  they  lined  a  distant  shore.  The 
wall-paper  of  red  flock  had  been  an  expensive  one, 
but  it  was  ugly,  and  faded  in  places  where  the  sun 
caught  it.  It  had  been  good  enough  for  the  Squire's 
grandfather  forty  years  before,  and  it  was  good 
enough  for  him.  It  was  hung  with  portraits  of  men 
and  women  and  portraits  of  horses,  some  of  the  latter 


MELBURY    PARK  59 

by  animal  painters  of  note.  The  furniture  was  all 
of  massive  mahogany,  furniture  that  would  last  for 
ever,  but  had  been  made  after  the  date  at  which  fur- 
niture left  off  being  beautiful  as  well  as  lasting.  The 
mantelpiece  was  of  brown  marble,  very  heavy  and 
very  ugly. 

At  one  minute  to  nine  Mrs.  Clinton  came  in.  She 
carried  a  little  old-fashioned  basket  of  keys  which 
she  put  down  on  the  dinner-wagon,  exactly  in  the 
centre  of  the  top  shelf.  Cicely  came  forward  to  kiss 
her,  followed  by  Miss  Bird,  with  comma-less  inquiries 
as  to  how  she  had  spent  the  night  after  her  journey, 
and  the  twins  came  in  through  the  long  window  to 
wish  her  good  morning.  She  replied  composedly  to 
the  old  starling's  twittering,  and  cast  her  eye  over 
the  attire  of  the  twins,  which  was  sometimes  known 
to  require  adjustment.  Then  she  took  her  seat  in 
one  of  the  big  easy-chairs  which  stood  on  either  side 
of  the  fireplace,  while  Porter,  the  butler,  placed  a 
Bible  and  a  volume  of  devotions,  both  bound  in 
brown  leather,  before  the  Squire's  seat  at  the  foot 
of  the  table,  and  retired  to  sound  the  gong. 

It  was  exactly  at  this  moment  that  the  Squire, 
who  opened  his  letters  in  the  library  before  break- 
fast, was  accustomed  to  enter  the  room,  and,  with  a 
word  of  greeting  to  his  assembled  family,  perch  his 
gold-rimmed  glasses  on  his  fine  straight  nose,  and 
with  the  help  of  two  book-markers  find  the  places  in 
the  Bible  and  book  of  prayers  to  which  the  year  in 
its  diurnal  course  had  brought  him.    The  gong  would 


60      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

sound,  either  immediately  before  or  immediately  after 
he  had  entered  the  room,  the  maids  and  the  men 
who  had  been  assembling  in  the  hall  would  file  in, 
he  would  throw  a  glance  towards  them  over  his 
glasses  to  see  that  they  were  all  settled,  and  then 
begin  to  read  in  a  fast,  country  gentleman's  voice 
the  portion  of  Scripture  that  was  to  hallow  the  day 
now  officially  beginning. 

The  gong  rolled  forth  its  sounding  reverberation, 
Miss  Bird  and  the  three  girls  took  their  seats,  and 
then  there  was  a  pause.  In  a  house  of  less  rigid 
habits  of  punctuality  it  would  have  been  filled  by 
small  talk,  but  here  it  was  so  unusual  that  when  it 
had  lasted  for  no  more  than  ten  seconds  the  twins 
looked  at  one  another  in  alert  curiosity  and  Cicely's 
eyes  met  those  of  her  mother,  which  showed  a 
momentary  apprehension  before  they  fixed  them- 
selves again  upon  the  shining  steel  of  the  fire  bars. 
Another  ten  seconds  went  by  and  then  the  library 
door  was  heard  to  open  and  the  Squire's  tread, 
heavy  on  the  paved  hall. 

Four  pairs  of  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  as  he 
entered  the  room,  followed  at  a  short  but  respectful 
interval  by  the  servants.  Mrs.  Clinton  still  looked 
inscrutably  at  the  grate.  The  Squire's  high  colour 
was  higher  than  its  wont,  his  thick  grizzled  eye- 
brows were  bent  into  a  frown,  and  his  face  was  set 
in  lines  of  anger  which  he  evidently  had  difficulty 
in  controlling.  He  fumbled  impatiently  with  the 
broad  markers  as  he  opened  the  books,  and  omitted 


MELBURY    PARK  61 

the  customary  glance  towards  the  servants  as  he 
began  to  read  in  a  voice  deeper  and  more  hurried 
than  usual.  When  he  laid  down  the  Bible  and  took 
up  the  book  of  prayers  he  remained  standing,  as 
he  sometimes  did  if  he  had  a  touch  of  rheumatism ; 
but  he  had  none  now,  and  his  abstention  from  a 
kneeling  position  amounted  to  a  declaration  that  he 
was  willing  to  go  through  the  form  of  family  prayers 
for  routine's  sake  but  must  really  be  excused  from 
giving  a  mind  to  it  which  was  otherwise  occupied. 

It  was  plain  that  he  had  received  a  letter  which 
had  upset  his  equanimity.  This  had  happened  be- 
fore, and  the  disturbance  created  made  manifest  in 
much  the  same  way.  But  it  had  happened  seldom, 
because  a  man  who  is  in  possession  of  an  income  in 
excess  of  his  needs  is  immune  from  about  half  the 
worries  that  come  with  the  morning's  post,  and  any 
annoyance  arising  from  the  administration  of  his 
estate  was  not  usually  made  known  to  him  by  letter. 
The  Squire's  letter-bag  was  normally  as  free  of  of- 
fence as  that  of  any  man  in  the  country. 

The  twins,  eying  one  another  with  surreptitious 
and  fearful  pleasure,  conveyed  in  their  glances  a 
knowledge  of  what  had  happened.  The  thing  that 
Walter  and  Muriel  had  made  up  their  minds  about, 
whatever  it  was — that  was  what  had  caused  the 
Squire  to  remain  behind  a  closed  door  until  he  had 
gained  some  slight  control  over  his  temper,  and  led 
him  now  to  prefer  the  petitions  appointed  in  the 
book  bound  in  brown  leather  in  a  voice  between  a 


62      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

rumble  and  a  bark.  Perhaps  everything  would  come 
out  when  Porter  and  the  footman  had  brought  in 
the  tea  and  coffee  service  and  the  breakfast  dishes, 
and  left  the  room.  If  it  did  not,  they  would  hear 
all  about  it  later.  Their  father's  anger  held  no 
terrors  for  them,  unless  it  was  directed  against 
themselves,  and  even  then  considerably  less  than 
might  have  been  supposed.  He  was  often  angry,  or 
appeared  to  be,  but  he  never  did  anything.  Even 
in  the  memorable  upheaval  of  seven  years  before — 
when  Walter  had  finally  refused  to  become  a  clergy- 
man and  announced  his  determination  of  becoming  a 
doctor — which  had  been  so  unlike  anything  that  had 
ever  happened  within  their  knowledge  that  it  had 
impressed  itself  even  upon  their  infant  minds,  and 
of  which  they  had  long  since  worried  all  the  details 
out  of  Cicely,  he  had  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  but 
had  given  way  in  the  end.  He  would  give  way  now, 
however  completely  he  might  lose  his  temper  in  the 
process.  The  twins  had  no  fear  of  a  catastrophe, 
and  therefore  looked  forward  with  interest,  as  they 
knelt  side  by  side,  with  their  plump  chins  propped 
on  their  plump  hands,  to  the  coming  storm. 

The  storm  broke,  as  anticipated,  when  the  servants 
had  finally  left  the  room,  and  the  Squire  had  ranged 
over  the  silver  dishes  on  the  side-table  for  one  to  his 
liking,  a  search  in  which  he  was  unsuccessful. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  Barnes  that  if  she  can't 
think  of  anything  for  breakfast  but  bacon,  and 
scrambled  eggs,  and  whiting,  and  mushrooms,  she  had 


MELBURY    PARK  63 

better  go,  and  the  sooner  the  better,"  he  said,  bend- 
ing a  terrifying  frown  on  his  wife.  "  Same  thing  day 
after  day !  "  But  he  piled  a  plate  with  bacon  and 
eggs  and  mushrooms  and  carried  it  off  to  his  seat, 
while  his  daughters  and  Miss  Bird  waited  round  him 
until  he  had  helped  himself. 

"  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Walter,"  he  began 
directly  he  had  taken  his  seat,  "  which  makes  me 
so  angry  that,  'pon  my  word,  I  scarcely  know  what 
to  do.  Nina,  this  milk  is  burnt.  Barnes  shall  go. 
She  sends  up  food  fit  for  the  pig-tub.  Why  can't 
you  see  that  the  women  servants  do  their  duty?  I 
can't  take  everything  on  my  shoulders.  God  knows 
I've  got  enough  to  put  up  with  as  it  is." 

"  Joan,  ring  the  bell,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton. 

"  Oh — God's  sake — no,  no,"  fussed  the  Squire. 
"  I  don't  want  the  servants  in.  Give  me  some  tea. 
Miss  Bird,  here's  my  cup,  please.  Take  it,  please, 
take  it,  Miss  Bird.  I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  so 
annoyed.  You  do  all  you  can  and  put  yourself  to 
an  infinity  of  trouble  and  expense  for  the  sake  of 
your  children,  and  then  they  behave  like  this. 
Really,  Walter  wants  a  good  thrashing  to  bring  him 
to  his  senses.  If  I  had  nipped  all  this  folly  of  doc- 
toring in  the  bud,  as  I  ought  to  have  done,  I  might 
have  been  able  to  live  my  life  in  peace.  It's  too  bad ; 
'pon  my  word,  it's  too  bad." 

The  twins,  sustaining  their  frames  diligently  with 
bacon  and  eggs  and  mushrooms — the  whiting  was  at 
a  discount — waited  with  almost  too  obvious  expecta- 


64      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

tion  for  the  full  disclosure  of  Walter's  depravity. 
Cicely,  alarmed  for  the  sake  of  Muriel,  ate  nothing 
and  looked  at  her  father  anxiously.  Miss  Bird  was 
in  a  state  of  painful  confusion  because  she  had  not 
realised  effectively  that  the  Squire  had  wanted  his 
cup  of  coffee  exchanged  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  might 
almost  be  said  to  have  been  "  spoken  to  "  about  her 
stupidity.  Only  with  Mrs.  Clinton  did  it  rest  to  draw 
the  fire  which,  if  she  did  it  unskilfully,  might  very 
well  be  turned  upon  herself.  A  direct  question  would 
certainly  have  so  turned  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  Walter  has  given  you  any  fur- 
ther cause  of  complaint,  Edward,"  she  said. 

This  was  not  skilful  enough.  "  Cause  of  com- 
plaint ! "  echoed  the  Squire  irritably.  "  Am  I 
accustomed  to  complain  about  anything  without  good 
reason?  You  talk  as  if  I  am  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  have  the  right  to  expect  my  wishes  to  be 
consulted.  Every  one  knows  that  I  gave  way  to 
Walter  against  my  better  judgment.  I  allowed  him 
to  take  up  this  doctoring  because  he  had  set  his  mind 
on  it,  and  I  have  never  said  a  word  against  it  since. 
And  how  now  does  he  reward  me  when  he  has  got 
to  the  point  at  which  he  might  begin  to  do  himself 
and  his  family  some  credit?  Coolly  writes  to  me  for 
money — to  me — for  money — to  enable  him  to  buy  a 
practice  at  Melbury  Park,  if  you  please.  Melbury 
Park!     Pah!!" 

The  Squire  pushed  his  half-emptied  plate  away 
from  him  in  uncontrollable  disgust.     He  was  really 


MELBURY    PARK  65 

too  upset  to  eat  his  breakfast.  The  utterance  of 
the  two  words  which  summed  up  Walter's  bhnd, 
infatuated  stampede  from  respectabihty  brought 
back  all  the  poignant  feelings  with  which  he  had  first 
read  his  letter.  For  the  moment  he  was  quite  beside 
himself  with  anger  and  disgust,  and  unless  relief 
had  been  brought  to  him  he  would  have  left 
his  breakfast  unfinished  and  stalked  out  of  the 
room. 

Nancy  brought  the  relief  with  the  artless  question, 
"  Where  is  Melbury  Park,  father?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  the  Squire  promptly, 
and  then  drew  a  lurid  picture  of  a  place  delivered 
over  entirely  to  the  hovels  of  nameless  people  of  the 
lower  middle  classes,  and  worse,  a  place  in  which  you 
would  be  as  effectually  cut  off  from  your  fellows 
as  if  you  went  to  live  in  Kamschatka.  Indeed,  you 
would  not  be  so  cut  off  if  you  went  to  Kamschatka, 
for  you  might  be  acknowledged  to  be  living  there,  but 
to  have  it  said  that  you  lived  at  Melbury  Park  would 
stamp  you.  It  would  be  as  easy  to  say  you  were 
living  in  Halloway  Goal.  It  was  a  place  they 
stopped  you  at  when  you  came  into  London  on  the 
North  Central  Railway,  to  take  your  tickets.  The 
Squire  mentioned  this  as  if  a  place  where  they  took 
your  tickets  was  of  necessity  a  dreadful  kind  of  a 
place.  "Little  have  I  ever  thought,"  he  said, 
"  when  I  have  been  pulled  up  there,  and  looked  at 
those  streets  and  streets  of  mean  little  houses,  that 
a  son  of  mine  would  one  day  want  to  go  and  live 


66      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

there.  Ton  my  word,  I  think  Walter's  brain  must 
be  giving  way." 

It  was  Cicely  who  asked  why  Walter  wanted  to 
live  at  Melbury  Park,  and  what  Muriel  said  about  it. 

"  He  doesn't  say  a  word  about  Muriel,"  snapped 
the  Squire.  "  I  suppose  Muriel  is  backing  him  up. 
I  shall  certainly  speak  to  Jim  and  Mrs.  Graham 
about  it.  It  is  disgraceful — positively  disgraceful — 
to  think  of  taking  a  girl  like  Muriel  to  live  in  such 
a  place.  She  wouldn't  have  a  soul  to  speak  to,  and 
she  would  have  to  mix  with  all  sorts  of  people.  A 
doctor's  wife  can't  keep  to  herself  like  other  women. 
Oh,  I  don't  know  why  he  wants  to  go  there.  Don't 
ask  me  such  questions.  I  was  ready  to  start  him 
amongst  nice  people,  whatever  it  had  cost,  and  he 
might  have  been  in  a  first-class  position  while  other 
men  of  his  age  were  only  thinking  about  it.  But 
no,  he  must  have  his  own  silly  way.  He  shan't  have 
his  way.  I'll  put  my  foot  down.  I  won't  have  the 
name  of  Clinton  disgraced.  It  has  been  respected 
for  hundreds  of  years,  and  I  don't  know  that  I've 
ever  done  anything  to  bring  it  down.  It's  a  little  too 
much  that  one  of  my  own  sons  should  go  out  of  his 
way  to  throw  mud  at  it.  I've  stood  enough.  I 
won't  stand  any  more.  Melbury  Park !  A  pretty 
sort  of  park!  " 

Having  thus  relieved  his  feelings  the  Squire 
was  enabled  to  eat  a  fairly  good  breakfast,  with  a 
plateful  of  ham  to  follow  his  bacon  and  eggs  and 
mushrooms,  a  spoonful  or  two  of  marmalade,  and 


MELBURY    PARK  67 

some  hot-house  grapes  to  finisli  up  with.  It  came 
out  further  that  Walter  was  coming  down  by  the 
afternoon  train  to  dine  and  sleep,  and  presumably 
to  discuss  the  proposal  of  which  he  had  given 
warning,  and  that  the  Squire  proposed  to  ask  Tom 
and  his  wife  to  luncheon,  or  rather  that  Mrs.  Clinton 
should  drop  in  at  the  Rectory  in  the  course  of  the 
morning  and  ask  them,  as  he  would  be  too  busy. 

Then  Cicely  asked  if  she  might  have  Kitty,  the 
pony,  for  the  morning,  and  the  Squire  at  once  said, 
"  No,  she'll  be  wanted  to  take  up  food  for  the 
pheasants,"  after  which  he  retired  to  his  room,  but 
immediately  returned  to  ask  Cicely  what  she  wanted 
the  pony  for. 

"  I  want  to  go  over  to  Mountfield,"  said  Cicely. 

"  Very  well,  you  can  have  her,"  said  the  Squire, 
and  retired  again. 

Mrs.  Clinton  made  no  comment  on  the  disclosures 
that  had  been  made,  but  took  up  her  basket  of  keys 
and  left  the  room. 

"  Now,  Joan  and  Nancy,  do  not  linger  but  get 
ready  for  your  lessons  at  a  quarter  to  ten  punctu- 
ally," Miss  Bird  broke  forth  volubly.  "  Every 
morning  I  have  to  hunt  you  from  the  breakfast  table 
and  my  life  is  spent  in  trying  to  make  you  punctual 
I  am  sure  if  your  father  knew  the  trouble  I  have  with 
you  he  would  speak  to  you  about  it  and  then  you 
would  see." 

"  Melbury  Park  1 "  exclaimed  Nancy  in  a  voice 
of  the  deepest  disgust,  as  she  rose  slowly  from  the 


68      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

table.  "  Ton  my  word,  Joan,  it's  too  bad.  I  spend 
my  life  in  trying  to  make  you  punctual  and  then  you 
want  to  go  to  Melbury  Park !  Pah !  A  nice  sort  of 
a  park!  '* 

"  Are  you  going  to  see  Muriel,  Cicely  ?  "  asked 
Joan,  also  rising  deliberately.  "  Starling,  darling! 
Don't  hustle  me,  I'm  coming.  I  only  want  to  ask  my 
sister  Cicely  a  question." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cicely.  "  If  I  couldn't  have  had 
Kitty  I  should  have  walked." 

"  How  unreasonable  you  are,  Cicely,"  said  Nancy. 
"  The  pony  is  wanted  to  take  chickweed  to  the 
canaries  at  Melbury  Park." 

"  Find  out  all  about  it,  Cis,"  said  Joan  in  process 
of  being  pushed  out  of  the  room.  "  Oh,  take  it.  Miss 
Bird,  please,  take  it." 

Cicely  drove  off  through  the  park  at  half-past  ten. 
Until  she  had  passed  through  the  lodge  gates  and 
got  between  the  banks  of  a  deep  country  lane,  Kitty 
went  her  own  pace,  quite  aware  that  she  was  being 
driven  by  one  whose  unreasonable  inclinations  for 
speed  must  subordinate  themselves  to  the  comfort 
of  pony-flesh  as  long  as  she  was  in  sight  of  house 
or  stables.  Then,  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  she  sud- 
denly quickened  her  trot,  but  did  not  escape  the  cut 
of  a  whip  which  was  always  administered  to  her  at 
this  point.  With  that  rather  vicious  little  cut  Cicely 
expressed  her  feelings  at  a  state  of  things  in  which, 
with  fourteen  or  fifteen  horses  in  the  stable  and  half 
a  dozen  at  the  home  farm,  the  only  animal  at  the 


MELBURY    PARK  69 

disposal  of  herself  and  her  sisters  was  always  wanted 
for  something  else  whenever  they  asked  for  it. 

The  Squire  had  four  hunters — sometimes  more — 
which  nobody  but  himself  ever  used,  and  the  price 
of  a  horse  that  would  carry  a  man  of  his  weight 
comfortably  ran  into  treble  figures  more  often  than 
not.  Dick  kept  a  couple  always  at  Kencote,  even 
Walter  had  one,  and  Humphrey  and  Frank  could 
always  be  mounted  whenever  they  wanted  a  day  with 
the  South  Meadshire.  There  were  nine  or  ten  horses, 
standing  in  stalls  or  loose  boxes  or  at  grass,  kept 
entirely  for  the  amusement  of  her  father  and 
brothers,  besides  half  a  dozen  more  for  the  carriages, 
the  station  omnibus,  the  luggage  cart,  and  all  the 
dynamic  demands  of  a  large  household.  The  boys 
had  all  had  their  ponies  as  soon  as  their  legs  could 
grip  a  saddle.  This  very  pony  that  she  was  driving 
was  really  Frank's,  having  been  rescued  for  him 
from  a  butcher's  cart  in  Bathgate  fourteen  years 
before,  and  nobody  knew  how  old  she  was.  She  was 
used  for  the  mowing  machine  and  for  every  sort  of 
little  odd  job  about  the  garden,  and  seemed  as  if  she 
might  go  on  for  ever.  It  was  only  when  Cicely  or 
the  twins  drove  her  that  the  reminder  was  given  that 
she  was  not  as  young  as  she  had  been,  and  must  not 
be  hustled. 

And  she  was  all  they  were  ever  allowed  to  drive, 
and  then  only  when  she  was  not  wanted  for  something 
else.  It  was  a  Clinton  tradition,  deriving  probably 
from    Colonel    Thomas    and    his    six    stay-at-home 


70      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

daughters,  that  the  women  of  the  family  did  not 
hunt.  They  were  encouraged  to  drive  and  allowed 
to  ride  to  the  meets  of  hounds  if  there  was  anything 
to  carry  them,  and  in  Cicely's  childhood  there  had 
been  other  ponies  besides  Kitty,  left-offs  of  her 
elder  brothers,  which  she  had  used.  But  she  had 
never  been  given  a  horse  of  her  own,  and  the  hunters 
were  far  too  precious  to  be  galled  by  a  side-saddle. 
What  did  she  want  to  ride  for?  The  Squire  hated 
to  see  women  flying  about  the  country  like  men,  and 
he  wasn't  going  to  have  any  more  horses  in  the 
stable.  The  men  had  more  than  enough  to  do  as  it 
was.  It  was  part  of  the  whole  unfair  scheme  on 
which  life  at  Kencote  was  based.  Everything  was 
done  for  the  men  and  boys  of  the  family,  and  the 
women  and  girls  must  content  themselves  with  what 
was  left  over. 

Pondering  these  and  other  things.  Cicely  drove 
along  the  country  lanes,  between  banks  and  hedges 
bright  with  the  growth  of  early  slimmer,  through 
woods  in  which  pheasants,  reared  at  great  expense 
that  her  father  and  brothers  and  their  friends  might 
kill  them,  called  one  another  hoarsely,  as  if  in  a 
continual  state  of  gratulation  at  having  for  a  year 
at  least  escaped  their  destined  end ;  between  fields 
in  which  broods  of  partridges  ran  in  and  out  of  the 
roots  of  the  green  corn ;  across  a  bridge  near  which 
was  a  deep  pool  terrifically  guarded  by  a  notice- 
board  against  those  who  might  have  disturbed  the 
fat  trout  lying  in  its  shadows ;  across  a  gorse-grown 


MELBURY    PARK  71 

common,  sacred  home  of  an  old  dog-fox  that  had 
defied  the  South  Meadshire  hounds  for  five  seasons ; 
and  so,  out  of  her  father's  property  on  to  that  of 
Jim  Graham,  in  which  blood  relations  of  the  Kencote 
game  and  vermin  were  protected  with  equal  care, 
in  order  that  the  Grahams  might  fulfil  the  destiny 
appointed  for  them  and  the  Clintons  and  the  whole 
race  of  squirearchy  alike. 

The  immediate  surroundings  of  Mountfield  were 
prettier  than  those  of  Kencote.  The  house  stood 
at  the  foot  of  a  wooded  rise,  and  its  long  white  front 
showed  up  against  a  dark  background  of  trees.  It 
was  older  in  date  than  Georgian  Kencote,  and  al- 
though its  walls  had  been  stuccoed  out  of  all  resem- 
blance to  those  of  an  old  house,  its  high-pitched 
roof  and  twisted  chimney  stacks  had  been  left  as 
they  were.  The  effect  was  so  incongruous  that  even 
unaesthetic  Alexander  Graham,  Jim's  father,  had 
thought  of  uncovering  the  red  brick  again.  But  the 
front  had  been  altered  to  allow  for  bigger  windows 
and  a  portico  resembling  that  at  Kencote,  and  the 
architect  whom  he  had  consulted,  had  pressed  him  to 
spend  more  money  on  it  than  he  felt  inclined  to.  So 
he  had  left  it  alone  and  spent  none;  and  Jim,  who 
was  not  so  well  off  as  his  father  by  the  amount  of 
Muriel's  portion  and  the  never-to-be-forgiven  Har- 
court  duties,  was  not  likely  to  have  a  thousand 
pounds  to  spare  for  making  his  rooms  darker  for 
some  years  to  come. 

The   old   stable  buildings,   untouched   by   the   re- 


72      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

storer,  flanked  the  house  on  one  side  and  the  high 
red  brick  wall  of  the  gardens   on  the  other.     The 
drive  sloped  gently  up  from  the  gates  through  an 
undulating  park  more  closely  planted  than  that  of 
Kencote.     There  were  some  very  old  trees  at  Mount- 
field  and  stretches  of  bracken  here  and  there  beneath 
them.     It  was  a  pity  that  the  house  had  been  spoilt 
in   appearance,  but   its    amenities   were   not   wholly 
destroyed.      Cicely  knew   it   almost   as   well   as   she 
knew  Kencote,  but  she  acknowledged  its  charm  now 
as  she  drove  up  between  the  oak  and  the  young  fern. 
Under  the  blue  June  sky  strewn  with  light  clouds, 
it  stood  for  a  peaceful,  pleasant  life,  if  rather  a  dull 
one,  and  she  could  not  help  wondering  whether  her 
friend  would   really  be  happier  in  a  house  of  her 
own  in  Melbury  Park,  which,  if  painted  in  somewhat 
exaggeratedly  dark  colours  by  Cicely's  father,  had 
not  struck    her,    when    she    had    seen    it    from    the 
railway,  as  a  place  in  which  any  one  could  possibly 
live  of  choice.     Perhaps  Walter  had  over-persuaded 
her.    She  would  know  very  soon  now,  for  Muriel  told 
her  everything. 


CHAPTER   VI 

A    GOOD    LONG   TALK 

Mrs.  Graham — she  was  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, a  daughter  of  the  breeder  of  Jove  II.  and  other 
famous  shorthorns — came  out  of  the  door  leading  to 
the  stableyard  as  Cicely  drove  up.  She  had  been 
feeding  young  turkeys,  and  wore  a  shortish  skirt  of 
brown  tweed,  thick  boots  and  a  green  Tyrolean  hat, 
and  was  followed  by  three  dogs — a  retriever,  a 
dachshund,  and  one  that  might  have  been  anything. 
She  was  tall  and  spare,  with  a  firm-set,  healthy  face, 
and  people  sometimes  said  that  she  ought  to  have 
been  a  man.  But  she  was  quite  happy  as  a  woman, 
looking  after  her  poultry  and  her  garden  out  of 
doors,  and  her  dogs  and  her  household  within.  She 
had  hardly  moved  from  Mountfield  since  her  mar- 
riage thirty  years  before,  and  the  only  fly  in  the 
ointment  of  content  in  which  she  had  embalmed  her- 
self was  that  she  would  have  to  leave  it  when  Jim 
married.  But  she  greeted  Cicely,  who  was  expected 
to  supplant  her,  with  bright  cordiality,  and  lifted  up 
a  loud  voice  to  summon  a  groom  to  lead  off  Kitty  to 
the  stable. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said ;  "  such  a  nuisance  as  this 
wedding  is  you  never  knew.  It's  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  keep  the  birds  and  the  animals  fed,  and  how 

78 


74      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

I  shall  look  in  heliotrope  and  an  aigrette  the  Lord 
only  knows.  But  I  suppose  nobody  will  look  at  me, 
and  Muriel  will  be  a  picture.  Have  you  heard  that 
Walter  is  going  to  take  her  to  live  at  Melbury  Park.'' 
It  seems  a  funny  place  to  go  to  live  in,  doesn't  it.'' 
But  I  suppose  they  won't  mind  as  long  as  they  are 
together.     I  never  saw  such  a  pair  of  love-birds." 

"  Walter  wrote  to  father  about  it  this  morning," 
said  Cicely,  "  and  he  is  coming  down  this  afternoon. 
Father  is  furious  with  him." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham  equably.  "  I  shouldn't  care  to  live  in  Mel- 
bury Park  myself,  and  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Clinton 
would.  But  nobody  asks  him  to.  If  they  want  to, 
it's  their  own  affair.  I'm  all  for  letting  peo- 
ple   go   their    own   way — always    have   been.     I   go 


mine." 


"  Why  does  Walter  choose  such  a  place  as  that 
to  take  Muriel  to.? "  asked  Cicely,  who  had  not 
remained  quite  unimpressed  by  the  Squire's  diatribe 
against  the  unfortunate  suburb. 

"  Oh,  it's  convenient  for  his  hospital  and  gives 
him  the  sort  of  practice  he  wants  for  a  year  or  two. 
/  don't  know.  They  won't  live  there  for  ever.  I 
don't  suppose  it  will  kill  them  to  know  a  few  people 
you  wouldn't  ask  to  dinner.  It  hasn't  killed  me.  I 
get  on  with  farmers'  wives  better  than  anybody — 
ought  to  have  been  one." 

"  Father  is  going  to  ask  you  to  put  your  foot 
down  and  say  Muriel  shan't  go  there,"  said  Cicely. 


AGOODLONGTALK  75 

"  Well  then,  I  won't,"  replied  Mrs.  Graham  de- 
cisively. "  I'm  not  a  snob."  Then  she  added  hur- 
riedly, "  I  don't  say  that  your  father  is  one  either ; 
but  he  does  make  a  terrible  fuss  about  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  should  have  thought  a  Clinton  was  good 
enough  to  be  able  to  know  anybody  without  doing 
himself  any  harm.  But  you  had  better  go  and  talk 
to  Muriel  about  it,  my  dear.  You  will  find  her  up- 
stairs, with  her  clothes.  Oh,  those  clothes !  I  must 
go  and  look  after  the  gardeners.  They  are  putting 
liquid  manure  on  the  roses,  and  I'm  afraid  they  will 
mix  it  too  strong." 

Mrs.  Graham  went  off  to  attend  to  her  unsavoury 
but  congenial  task,  and  Cicely  went  indoors  and  up 
to  Muriel's  room,  where  she  found  her  friend  with 
a  maid,  busy  over  some  detail  of  her  trousseau.  They 
greeted  one  another  with  coolness  but  affection,  the 
maid  was  sent  out  of  the  room,  and  they  settled 
down  in  chintz-covered  easy-chairs  by  the  window  for 
the  usual  good  long  talk. 

Muriel  was  a  pretty  girl,  less  graceful  than  Cicely, 
but  with  her  big  brown  eyes  and  masses  of  dark  hair, 
a  foil  to  her  friend's  fair  beauty.  She  had  her 
mother's  sensible  face,  but  was  better-looking  than 
her  mother  had  ever  been. 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me  every  word  from  the  be- 
ginning," she  said.  "  You  said  nothing  in  your  let- 
ters. You  didn't  make  me  see  the  room,  or  any  one 
in  it." 

Cicely  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  her  late  ex- 


76      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

periences,  but  her  friend's  own  affairs  were  of  more 
recent  interest.  "  But  I  want  to  hear  about  Walter 
and  Melbury  Park  first,"  she  said.  "  There  is  a  rare 
to-do  about  it  at  Kencote,  I  can  tell  you,  Muriel." 

"Is  there?"  said  Muriel,  after  a  short  pause,  as 
if  she  were  adjusting  her  thoughts.  "  That  was  what 
Walter  was  afraid  of." 

"  Don't  you  mind  going  to  live  in  a  place  like 
that  ?  "  asked  Cicely.  "  Father  thinks  it  is  a  shame 
that  Walter  should  take  you  there." 

"  O  my  dear,"  said  Muriel,  with  a  trifle  of  im- 
patience, "  you  know  quite  well  what  I  think  about 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  We  have  talked  it  over  hun- 
dreds of  times.  Here  we  are,  stuck  down  in  the 
middle  of  all  this,  with  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 
but  amuse  ourselves,  if  we  can,  and  never  any  chance 
of  pushing  along.  We  have  got  it  all ;  there  is  noth- 
ing to  go  for.  That's  what  I  first  admired  about  my 
darling  old  Walter.  He  struck  out  a  line  of  his 
own.  If  he  had  been  content  just  to  lop  over  the 
fence  into  Kencote  Rectory,  I  don't  think  I  should 
ever  have  fallen  in  love  with  him.  I  don't  know, 
though.     He  is  the  sweetest  old  dear." 

"  Oh,  don't  begin  about  Walter,"  urged  Cicely. 

"  Yes,  I  will  begin  about  Walter,"  replied  Muriel, 
"  and  I'll  go  on  with  Walter.  He  says  now  that 
the  only  thing  he  is  really  keen  about — except 
me — is  his  work.  He  alwa3^s  liked  it,  in  a  way, 
but  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  doctor  it  was 
only  because  he  knew  he  must  have  some  profession, 


A    GOOD   LONG   TALK  77 

and  he  thought  he  might  as  well  have  one  that  inter- 
ested him.  But  now  it  takes  up  all  his  thoughts, 
except  when  he  comes  down  here  for  a  holiday,  and 
you  know  how  the  old  pet  enjoys  his  holidays.  Well, 
I'm  going  to  do  all  I  can  to  help  him  to  get  on.  He 
says  this  practice  at  Melbury  Park  is  just  what 
he  wants,  to  get  his  hand  in;  he  won't  be  worried 
with  a  lot  of  people  who  aren't  really  ill  at  all,  but 
have  to  be  kept  in  a  good  humour  in  case  they 
should  go  off  to  another  doctor.  It  will  be  hard, 
sound  work,  and  he  will  be  in  touch  with  the  hos- 
pital all  the  time.  He  is  immensely  keen  about  it. 
I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  Mr.  Clinton, 
but  why  can't  he  see  that  Walter  is  worth  all  the 
rest  of  your  brothers  put  together,  because  he  has 
set  out  to  do  something  and  they  are  just  having  a 
good  time?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  Muriel,  I  can't  allow  that,"  said  Cicely. 
"  Dick  is  quite  a  good  soldier.  He  got  his  D.S.O. 
in  the  war.  And  besides,  his  real  work  is  to  look 
after  the  property,  and  he  knows  as  much  about 
that  as  father.  And  Humphrey  has  to  go  about  a 
lot.  You  must,  in  the  Foreign  Office.  And  Frank 
— he  is  doing  all  right.  He  was  made  doggy  to  his 
Admiral  only  the  other  day." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  replied  Muriel,  "  they  start 
from  what  they  are.  And  you  can't  say  that  their 
chief  aim  isn't  to  have  a  good  time.  Walter  has  gone 
in  against  men  who  have  to  work,  whether  they  want 
to  or  not,  and  he  has  done  as  well  as  any  of  them. 


78      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

He  owes  nothing  to  being  the  son  of   a   rich  man. 
It  has  been  against  him,  if  anything." 

"  Father  hoped  he  was  going  to  set  up  as  a  con- 
sulting physician,"  said  Cicely. 

"Yes,  and  why?"  asked  Muriel.  "Only  because 
he  wants  him  to  live  amongst  the  right  sort  of 
people.  He  doesn't  care  a  bit  whether  he  would 
make  a  good  consultant  or  not.  Walter  says  he 
isn't  ready  for  it.  He  wants  more  experience.  It 
will  all  come  in  time.  He  is  not  even  quite  sure  what 
he  wants  to  specialise  on,  or  if  he  wants  to  specialise 
at  all.  At  present  he  only  wants  to  be  a  G.P.,  with 
plenty  of  work  and  time  for  the  hospital." 

"What  is  a  G.P.?  "  asked  Cicely. 

"  Oh,  a  general  practitioner.  It's  what  Walter 
calls  it." 

"  Then  why  can't  he  be  a  G.P.  in  a  nicer  place 
than  Melbury  Park?  It  is  rather  hard  on  you, 
Muriel,  to  take  you  to  a  place  where  you  can't  know 
anybody." 

"  O  my  dear,  what  do  I  care  for  all  that  nonsense 
about  knowing  people?  Surely  there's  enough  of 
that  here !  Is  this  person  to  be  called  on,  who  has 
come  to  live  in  a  house  which  nobody  ever  called  at 
before,  or  that  person,  because  nobody  has  ever 
heard  of  her  people?  I'm  sick  of  it.  Even  mother 
won't  call  on  Bathgate  people,  however  nice  they 
may  be,  and  she's  not  nearly  so  stuck  up  as  most  of 
the  county  women." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,  and  of  course  it's  nonsense. 


AGOODLONGTALK  79 

But  you  must  admit  that  it  is  different  with  people 
who  aren't  gentle-people  at  all." 

"  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  I  don't  pretend  that  I'm 
going  to  make  bosom  friends  of  all  Walter's  patients, 
though  I  am  going  to  do  what  I  can  to  make  things 
pleasant  all  round.  We  shall  see  our  friends  in 
London,  of  course.  Jim  is  going  to  give  us  a  jolly 
good  motor-car,  and  we  shall  be  able  to  dine  out 
and  go  to  the  play  and  all  that  if  we  want  to,  and 
people  ask  us.  But  it  is  all  so  unimportant.  Cicely, 
that  side  of  it.  Walter  wants  to  get  out  of  it.  He'll 
be  very  busy,  and  the  best  times  we  shall  have  will 
be  in  our  own  little  house  alone,  or  going  right  away 
when  we  get  a  holiday." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Cicely.  "  Of 
course  it  will  be  jolly  to  have  your  own  house  and  do 
what  you  like  with  it.  Has  Walter  got  a  house 
yet.?" 

"  There  is  quite  a  decent  one  we  can  have  where 
the  man  who  wants  to  sell  the  practice  lives.  It  is 
really  bigger  than  we  want,  although  it's  only  a 
semi-detached  villa.  I  should  be  able  to  have  my 
friends  to  stay  with  me.  Cicel}^,  you  must  come 
directly  we  move  in,  and  help  to  get  things  straight, 
if  we  go  there." 

"  Oh,  you'll  go  there  all  right,  if  Walter  has  made 
up  his  mind  about  it,"  said  Cicely.  "  Father  thinks 
he  will  hold  out,  but  he  knows,  really,  that  he  won't. 
That's  what  makes  him  so  wild." 

Both    the    girls    laughed.     "  He    is    a    funny    old 


80      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

thing,"  said  Muriel  apologetically,  "  but  he  has  been 
very  nice  to  me." 

"  Only  because  you  have  got  ten  thousand  pounds, 
my  dear,  and  are  the  right  sort  of  match  for  Walter. 
He  wouldn't  be  very  nice  to  you  if  Walter  had  found 
you  at  Melbury  Park;  not  even  if  you  had  your  ten 
thousand  pounds.  Oh  dear,  I  wish  I  had  ten  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  it?  " 

"  I  should  travel.  At  any  rate  I  should  go  away 
from  Kencote.  Muriel,  I  am  sick  to  death  of 
it." 

"  Ah,  that  is  because  it  seems  dull  after  London. 
You  haven't  told  me  a  word  about  all  that  you  have 
been  doing,  and  I  have  been  talking  about  myself 
all  the  time." 

"  I  didn't  care  a  bit  about  London.  I  didn't  enjoy 
it  at  all — except  the  opera." 

"  Don't  try  to  be  hlasee,  my  dear  girl.  Of  course 
you  enjoyed  it." 

"  I  tell  you  I  didn't.  Look  here,  Muriel,  really  it 
is  unfair  the  way  the  boys  have  everything  in  our 
family  and  the  girls  have  nothing." 

"  I  do  think  it  is  a  shame  you  are  not  allowed  to 
hunt." 

"  It  isn't  only  that.  It  is  the  same  with  every- 
thing. I  have  seen  it  much  more  plainly  since  I 
went  to  London." 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  went  to  a  Court  Ball,  and 
to  all  the  best  houses.    The  boys  don't  do  more  than 


A    GOOD    LONG   TALK  81 

that.     I  shouldn't  do  as  much  if  I  went  to  London 
in  the  season." 

"  Yes,  I  went.  And  I  went  because  Cousin 
Humphrey  took  the  trouble  to  get  cards  for  us.  He 
is  an  old  darling.  Do  you  suppose  father  would 
have  taken  the  smallest  trouble  about  it — for  me  and 
mother?  " 

"  He  knows  all  the  great  people.  I  suppose  a 
Clinton  is  as  good  as  anybody." 

"  Yes,  a  man  Clinton.  That  is  just  it.  Dick  and 
Humphrey  go  everywhere  as  a  matter  of  course.  I 
saw  enough  of  it  to  know  what  society  in  London 
means.  It  is  like  a  big  family;  you  meet  the  same 
people  night  after  night,  and  everybody  knows 
everybody  else — that  is  in  the  houses  that  Cousin 
Humphrey  got  us  invited  to.  Dick  and  Humphrey 
know  everybody  like  that ;  they  were  part  of  the 
family;  and  mother  and  I  were  just  country  cousins 
who  knew  nobody." 

"  Well,  of  course,  they  are  there  all  the  time  and 
you  were  only  up  for  a  fortnight.  Didn't  they  in- 
troduce you  to  people?  " 

"  O  yes.  Dick  and  Humphrey  are  kind  enough. 
They  wanted  me  to  have  a  good  time.  But  you  are 
not  supposed  to  want  introductions  in  London. 
You  are  supposed  to  know  enough  men  to  dance 
with,  or  you  wouldn't  be  there.  And  the  men  don't 
like  it.  I  often  heard  Dick  and  Humphrey  apolo- 
gising to  their  friends  for  asking  them  to  dance  with 
me.     You  know    the    sort   of   thing,    Muriel :    '  You 


82      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

might  take  a  turn  with  my  little  sister,  old  man,  if 
you've  nobody  better.  She's  up  here  on  the  spree 
and  she  don't  know  anybody.'  " 

"  O  Cicely,  they  wouldn't  give  you  away  like 
that." 

"  Perhaps  not  quite  as  bad  as  that.  Dick  and 
Humphrey  are  nice  enough  as  brothers,  and  I  be- 
lieve they're  proud  of  me  too,  in  a  way.  They  al- 
ways danced  with  me  themselves,  and  they  always 
noticed  what  I  was  wearing,  and  said  I  looked  a 
topper.  I  know  I  looked  all  right,  but  directly  I 
opened  my  mouth  I  gave  myself  away,  just  like  a 
maid  in  her  mistress's  clothes." 

"O  Cicely!" 

"  Well,  it  was  like  that.  I  had  nothing  to  talk 
about.  I  don't  know  London ;  I  can't  talk  scandal 
about  people  I  don't  know.  Of  course  I  had  to  tell 
them  I  had  always  lived  in  the  country,  and  then 
they  began  to  talk  about  hunting  at  once.  Then  I 
had  to  say  that  I  didn't  hunt,  and  then  they  used 
to  look  at  me  through  their  eyeglasses,  and  wonder 
what  the  deuce  I  did  do  with  myself.  The  fact  is, 
that  I  can'.t  do  anything.  Even  the  ones  with 
brains — there  were  a  few  of  them — who  tried  me  with 
things  besides  hunting,  couldn't  get  anything  out 
of  me,  because  there  is  nothing  to  get.  I've  never 
been  anywhere  or  seen  anything.  I  don't  know 
anything — nothing  about  books  or  pictures  or 
music  or  plays.  Why  on  earth  should  they  want  to 
talk  to  me.''     Hardly  any  of  them  did  twice,  unless 


A    GOOD   LONG    TALK  83 

it  was  those  who  thought  I  was  pretty  and  wanted 
to  flirt  with  me.     I  felt  such  a  fool!  " 

She  was  ahiiost  in  tears.  Her  pretty  face  under 
its  white  motor-cap  was  flushed;  she  twisted  her 
gloves  in  her  slender  hands. 

"  O  Cicely,  darHng  1  "  said  Muriel  sympathetically, 
"  you  are  awfully  bright  and  clever,  really.  You've 
many  more  brains  than  I  have." 

"  I'm  not  clever,  but  I've  got  as  many  brains  as 
other  girls.  And  what  chance  have  I  ever  had  of 
learning  anything?  Dick  and  Humphrey  and  Walter 
were  all  sent  to  Eton  and  Oxford  or  Cambridge. 
They  have  all  had  the  most  expensive  education  that 
any  boys  could  have,  and  as  long  as  they  behaved 
themselves  pretty  well,  nobody  cared  in  the  least 
whether  they  took  advantage  of  it  or  not.  What 
education  have  /  had.?  Miss  Bird!  I  don't  suppose 
she  knows  enough  to  get  a  place  as  teacher  in  a 
village  school.  I  suppose  I  know  just  about  as  much 
as  the  girls  who  do  go  to  a  village  school.  I  haven't 
even  had  lessons  in  drawing  or  music,  or  anythmg 
that  I  might  perhaps  have  been  good  at.  I'm  an 
ignorant  fool,  and  it's  all  father's  fault,  and  it  isn't 
fair." 

She  had  talked  herself  into  actual  tears  now. 
Muriel  said,  in  a  dry  voice  which  did  not  accord 
with  her  expression  of  face,  "  This  sudden  rage  for 
learning  is  a  new  thing,  my  dear." 

Cicely  dabbed  her  eyes  impatiently  and  sat  up  in 
her  chair.     "  I  dare  say  I  am  talking  a  lot  of  non- 


84?      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

sense,"  she  said,  "  but  I  have  been  wondering  what 
I  do  get  for  being  the  daughter  of  a  rich  country 
gentleman ;  because  father  is  rich,  as  well  as  being  the 
head  of  an  important  family,  as  he  is  always  re- 
minding us,  though  he  pretends  to  think  nothing  of 
it.  He  has  never  gone  without  anything  he  wanted 
in  the  whole  of  his  life,  and  the  boys  have  everything 
they  want  too,  that  can  be  got  for  money." 

"  Your  allowance  was  just  twice  as  much  as 
mine,  when  father  was  alive,"  Muriel  reminded 
her. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  can  have  plenty  of  nice  clothes  and 
all  that,"  said  Cicely,  "  and  I  have  nice  food  too,  and 
plenty  of  it,  and  a  nice  room,  and  a  big  house  to 
live  in.  But  I  don't  call  it  living,  that's  all.  Father 
and  the  boys  can  live.  We  can't.  Outside  Kencote, 
we're  nobody  at  all — I've  found  that  out — and 
mother  is  of  no  more  importance  than  I  am.  We're 
just  the  women  of  the  family.  Anything  is  good 
enough  for  us." 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  quite  fair.  Cicely.  Mrs. 
Clinton  doesn't  care  for  going  about,  does  she?  It 
would  depend  more  upon  her  than  your  father  and 
brothers." 

"What  would  depend  on  her?" 

"  Well,  I  mean  you  grumble  at  Dick  and  Humphrey 
knowing  more  people  than  you  do." 

"  I  suppose  what  you  do  mean  is  that  the  Birkets 
aren't  as  good  as  the  Clintons." 

There  was  the  slightest  pause.     Then  Muriel  said, 


A    GOOD    LONG    TALK  85 

a  little  defiantly,  "  Well,  the  Grahams  aren't  as  good 
as  the  Conrojs." 

"  I  know  that  mother  isn't  only  as  good  as  father ; 
she  is  a  great  deal  better." 

Cicely  spoke  with  some  heat,  and  Muriel  made 
a  little  gesture  with  her  hands.  "Oh,  all  right,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  "  if  you  don't  want  to  talk  straight." 
It  was  a  formula  they  used. 

Cicely  hesitated.  "  If  you  mean,"  she  began,  but 
Muriel  interrupted  her.  "  You  know  quite  well  what 
I  mean,  and  you  know  what  I  don't  mean.  You 
know  I  would  never  say  that  Mrs.  Clinton  wasn't 
as  good  as  anybody  in  the  world,  in  the  sense  you 
pretended  to  take  my  words.  We  were  talking  of 
something  quite  different." 

"  Sorry,  Muriel,"  replied  Cicely.  This  was  an- 
other formula.  "  We  did  go  to  a  dance  at  Aunt 
Emmeline's,  you  know.  If  I  hadn't  been  to  all  those 
other  houses  I  should  have  enjoyed  it  immensely. 
Well,  I  did  enjoy  it — better,  really.  Aunt  Em- 
meline  saw  that  I  had  heaps  of  partners  and  I  got 
on  well  with  them.  They  were  mostly  barristers  and 
people  like  that.  They  took  the  trouble  to  talk, 
and  some  of  them  even  made  me  talk.  It  is  a  lovely 
house — of  course  not  like  one  of  the  great  London 
houses,  but  with  two  big  drawing-rooms,  and  Iff's 
band,  and  everything  done  very  well.  If  I  had  gone 
straight  up  from  here  to  that  ball,  it  would  have 
been  one  of  the  best  I  had  ever  gone  to." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Birket  is  a  famous  barrister,  and  I 


86      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

suppose  is  very  well  off  too.  I  should  think  he 
knows  as  many  interesting  people  as  anybody." 

"  Interesting  people,  yes ;  but  there  wasn't  a  soul 
there  that  I  had  seen  at  the  other  houses,  except 
Dick  and  Humphrey." 

"  Were  they  there .?  " 

"  There !  "  cried  Cicely  triumphantly.  "  You  see 
you  are  quite  surprised  at  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel  firmly,  "  they  were  there. 
And  how  did  they  behave  ^  " 

"  Oh,  they  behaved  all  right.  Humphrey  went 
away  early,  but  Dick  stayed  quite  a  long  time. 
Dick  can  be  very  sweet  if  he  likes,  and  he  doesn't 
give  himself  airs,  really — he  only  takes  it  for  granted 
that  he  is  a  great  personage.  And  so  he  is ;  you 
would  say  so  if  you  saw  him  in  London.  Do  you 
know,  Muriel,  I  was  next  to  the  Duchess  of  Pevensey 
at  Dunster  House,  and  I  heard  her  whisper  to  her 
daughter,  quite  sharply,  '  Evelyn,  keep  a  valse  for 
Captain  Clinton,  in  case  he  asks  you.'  Of  course 
she  hadn't  an  idea  that  I  was  Captain  Clinton's 
sister.  She  had  looked  down  her  nose  at  me  just 
before,  and  wondered  what  I  was  doing  there." 

"  I  suppose  she  didn't  say  so." 

"  Her  nose  did.  You  should  have  seen  her  face 
when  Dick  came  up  the  moment  after  and  said, 
'  Here  you  are.  Siskin ;  come  and  have  a  spin ' ; 
and  didn't  take  any  notice  of  dear  Evelyn,  who  must 
have  been  at  least  thirty." 

"  Well,  go  on  about  Mrs.  Birket's." 


A    GOOD    LONG   TALK  &t 

"  Yes,  well,  Dick  said,  '  Now,  Siskin,  I  don't  know 
any  of  the  pretty  ladies  here,  and  I'm  going  to 
dance  with  you.'  But  when  Aunt  Emmeline  came 
up  and  insisted  upon  introducing  him  to  a  lot  of 
girls,  he  went  off  as  nicely  as  possible  and  danced 
with  the  whole  lot  of  them.  And,  you  know,  a  man 
like  Dick  isn't  supposed  to  have  to  do  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Muriel  laughed ;  and  Cicely,  who  had  recovered  her 
good  humour,  laughed  too.  "  Of  course,  it  wasn't 
anything  to  fuss  about,  really,"  she  said,  "  but  you 
see  what  I  mean,  Muriel,  don't  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Muriel,  "  unless  you  mean 
exactly  what  I  said  just  now,  and  you  bit  my  head 
off  for.  Mr.  Clinton  is  what  some  people  call  a 
swell,  and  Dick  is  a  swell  too.  The  Grahams  aren't 
swells,  and  the  Birkets  aren't  either.  And  if  you 
want  it  quite  straight,  my  dear,  neither  you  nor  I 
are  swells ;  we're  only  what  they  call  county." 

"  You're  so  sensible,  Muriel  darling ! "  said 
Cicely. 

"  And  you've  had  your  head  turned.  Cicely 
darling !  "  retorted  Muriel.  "  You  have  been  taken 
up  by  your  great  relations,  and  you  have  come  back 
to  your  simple  home  discontented." 

"  It's  all  very  well,  though,"  said  Cicely,  becoming 
serious  again,  "  but  I'm  a  Clinton  just  as  much  as 
the  boys  are,  and  just  as  much  as  you  are  a  Graham. 
You  say  the  Grahams  are  not  swells — you  do  use 
horrible  language,  Muriel  dear — but  I  suppose  Lord 


88      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Conroy  is,  and  so,  according  to  your  argument,  you 
ought  to  be." 

"  Uncle  Blobs  isn't  a  swell — he's  only  a  farmer 
with  a  title." 

"  Oh !  then  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a 
swell." 

"  Well,  of  course  the  Conroys  are  swells  in  a  way, 
but  they  don't  care  about  swelling.  If  mother  had 
liked — and  father  had  let  her — she  could  have  been 
a  fashionable  lady,  and  dear  Muriel  could  have  been 
a  fashionable  girl,  with  her  picture  in  the  illustrated 
papers,  sitting  in  front  of  a  lattice  window  with  a 
sweet  white  frock  and  a  bunch  of  lilies.  *  We  give 
this  week  a  charming  photograph  of  Miss  Muriel 
Graham,  the  only  daughter  of  the  Honourable  Mrs. 
Graham.  Mrs.  Graham  is  a  daughter  of  '  and  so 
on.  As  it  is,  dear  Muriel  is  just  the  daughter  of  a 
country  squire." 

"  That  is  all  dear  Cicely  is,  though  you  said  just 
now  that  father  was  a  swell.  I  don't  see,  really,  that 
he  is  much  more  of  a  swell  than  Mr.  Graham  was — 
here." 

"No— he  isn't— here.  That's  just  it.  That  is 
what  you  are  running  your  head  against,  my  dear. 
Perhaps  he  isn't  really  a  swell  at  all,  now.  But  he 
could  be  if  he  liked,  and  he  was  when  he  was  young. 
It  is  because  he  likes  being  a  country  squire  best 
that  you  have  got  to  put  up  with  being  a  country 
squire's  daughter.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  as  you  seem 
to  feel  it  so  much,  but  I'm  afraid  there's  no  help  for 


A    GOOD    LONG   TALK  89 

it.  I  don't  think,  really,  you  have  much  to  grumble 
at,  but  I  suppose  if  you  live  for  a  fortnight  ex- 
clusively amongst  dukes  and  duchesses,  you  are  apt 
to  get  a  little  above  yourself.  Now  tell  me  all  about 
the  Court  Ball." 

Cicely  told  her  all  about  the  Court  Ball;  then 
they  talked  about  other  things,  and  Muriel  said, 
"  You  have  never  asked  about  Jim.  His  ship  is  due 
in  London  next  Wednesday  and  he  will  be  home  the 
day  after." 

"  Dear  old  Jim,"  said  Cicely — she  was  at  work 
on  some  embroidery  for  Muriel.  "  It  will  be  jolly 
to  see  him  back  again.  But  it  doesn't  seem  like  a 
year  since  he  went  away." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  missed  him  much." 

"  O  yes,  I  have.  But  it  was  like  when  the  boys 
went  back  to  school  or  to  Cambridge — frightfully 
dull  at  first,  and  then  you  got  used  to  it,  and  they 
were  back  before  you  knew  where  you  were." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  I  don't  feel  like  that  about 
Walter  now.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  he 
were  to  go  off  for  a  year." 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  different.  You  are  deeply  in 
love,  my  dear." 

"  So  were  you  once." 

"  Never  in  the  world,  Muriel,  and  you  know  that 
quite  well.  I  was  a  little  donkey.  I  had  only  just 
put  my  hair  up  and  I  thought  it  a  fine  thing  to  be 
engaged.  Not  that  that  lasted  long.  Dear  old  Jim 
soon  repented,  and  I  don't  blame  him." 


90      THE    SQUIRE*S   DAUGHTER 

"  Jim  is  pretty  close  about  things,  but  I  sometimes 
doubt  whether  he  has  repented." 

"  You  mean  that  he  still  cherishes  a  tender  passion 
for  sweet  Cicely  Clinton." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Well,  I  should.  Anyway,  it  isn't  returned.  I 
love  Jim,  but  if  I  heard  that  he  had  come  home 
engaged,  as  I  dare  say  he  will,  I  shouldn't  mind  in 
the  very  least.  I  should  be  the  first  to  congratulate 
him." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't.  He  would  tell  mother  and 
me  first.  And  you  needn't  give  yourself  airs,  you 
know.  Jim  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  you. 
You  would  be  mistress  of  Mountfield.  I'm  not 
making  half  such  a  brilliant  alliance." 

"  Brilliant !  I'm  quite  sure  you  would  rather  be 
going  to  marry  somebody  who  had  his  way  to  make, 
like  Walter,  than  trickle  off  from  one  big,  dull  coun- 
try house  to  another.    Wouldn't  you,  now?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  would.  But  it  wouldn't  make  any 
difference  to  me,  really,  if  I  had  Walter.  If  Dick 
were  to  die,  which  I'm  sure  I  hope  he  won't,  and 
Walter  were  to  succeed  to  Kencote,  I  should  like  it 
just  as  much." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  it  would  be  all  right  when  one 
got  older.  At  present  I  think  it  would  be  burying 
yourself  alive  when  you  ought  to  have  the  chance  of 
doing  something  and  seeing  something.  No,  Muriel, 
dear.  I  have  been  a  squire's  daughter  all  my  life, 
and  there's  no  money  in  it,  as  Humphrey  says.     The 


A    GOOD   LONG   TALK  91 

last  thing  I  want  to  be  at  present  is  a  squire's  wife. 
I  believe  Jim  has  forgotten  all  that  silliness  as  much 
as  I  have.  If  I  thought  he  hadn't,  I  shouldn't  be  so 
glad  as  I  am  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  him  back." 

"  I  dare  say  he  has.  You're  not  good  enough  for 
him." 

"  And  he  isn't  good  enough  for  me.  I  must  be 
going  home,  or  father  will  accuse  me  of  over-driving 
Kitty.  I  always  do  over-drive  her,  but  he  doesn't 
notice  unless  I  am  late.  Good-bye,  Muriel.  It  has 
done  me  good  to  talk  to  you." 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE    RECTOR 


The  Rector  was  shown  into  the  library  where  the 
Squire  was  reading  the  Times,  for  which  a  groom 
rode  over  to  Bathgate  every  morning  at  eleven 
o'clock,  and  woe  betide  him  if  he  ever  came  back 
later  than  half-past  twelve.  It  was  a  big  room  lined 
with  books  behind  a  brass  lattice  which  nobody  ever 
opened.  Though  the  Squire  used  it  every  day,  and 
had  used  it  for  five-and-thirty  years,  he  had  never 
altered  its  appointments,  and  his  grandfather  had 
not  lived  in  it.  Merchant  Jack  had  furnished  it 
handsomely  for  a  library,  and  the  Reverend  John 
Clinton  Smith,  the  historian  of  Kencote,  had  bought 
the  books  for  him,  and  read  most  of  them  for  him 
too.  If  he  had  returned  from  the  tomb  in  which  he 
had  lain  for  a  hundred  years  to  this  room  where 
he  had  spent  some  of  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life, 
he  would  only  have  had  to  clear  out  a  boxful  or  two 
of  papers  from  the  cupboards  under  the  bookshelves 
and  the  drawers  of  the  writing-tables,  and  remove  a 
few  photographs  and  personal  knick-knacks,  and 
there  would  have  been  nothing  there  that  was  not 
familiar,  except  the  works  of  Surtees  and  a  few  score 
other  books,  which  he  would  have  taken  up  with  inter- 
est and  laid  down  again  with  contempt,  in  some  new 

92 


THE    RECTOR  93 

shelves  by  the  fireplace.  The  Squire  had  no  skill  with 
a  room.  He  hated  any  alteration  in  his  house,  and 
he  had  debated  this  question  of  a  new  bookcase  to 
hold  the  few  books  he  did  read  from  time  to  time 
with  as  much  care  as  the  Reverend  John  Clinton 
Smith,  book-lover  as  he  was,  had  devoted  to  the 
housing  of  the  whole  library. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Tom,"  said  the  Squire  heartily, 
"  I'm  glad  you  came  up.  I  should  have  come  down 
to  you,  but  I've  been  so  busy  all  the  morning  that 
I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind  a  summons.  Have 
you  brought  Grace  ?  " 

"  She  is  with  Nina,"  said  the  Rector,  and  sat 
heavily  down  in  the  easy-chair  opposite  to  that  from 
which  the  Squire  had  risen.  He  was  a  big  man, 
with  a  big  face,  clean  shaven  except  for  a  pair  of 
abbreviated  side  whiskers.  He  had  light-blue  eyes  and 
a  mobile,  sensitive  mouth.  His  clothes  were  rather 
shabby,  and  except  for  a  white  tie  under  a  turned- 
down  collar,  not  clerical.  His  voice,  coming  from  so 
massive  a  frame,  seemed  thin,  but  it  was  of  a  pleasant 
tenor  quality,  and  went  well  with  the  mild  and  at- 
tractive expression  of  his  face.  All  the  parishioners 
of  Kencote  liked  the  Rector,  though  he  was  not  at  all 
diligent  in  visiting  them.  Perhaps  they  liked  him  the 
better  on  that  account. 

The  Rector  was  the  Squire's  half-brother.  Colonel 
Thomas  CHnton,  the  Squire's  grandfather,  had  fol- 
lowed, amongst  other  traditions  of  his  family,  that  of 
marrying  early,  and  marrying  money.    His  wife  was  a 


94      THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

city  lady,  daughter  of  Alderman  Sir  James  Banket, 
and  brought  him  forty  thousand  pounds.  Besides  his 
six  daughters,  he  had  one  son,  who  was  delicate  and 
could  not  support  the  fatigue  of  his  own  arduous 
pursuit  of  sport.  He  was  sent  to  Eton  and  to  Trin- 
ity College,  and  a  cornetcy  was  bought  for  him  in 
the  Grenadier  Guards.  He  also  married  early,  and 
married,  following  an  alternative  tradition,  not 
money,  but  blood.  His  wife  was  a  sister  of  a  brother 
officer,  the  Marquis  of  Nottingham,  and  they  were 
happy  together  for  a  year.  He  died  of  a  low  fever 
immediately  after  the  birth  of  his  son,  Edward,  that 
Squire  of  Kencote  with  whom  we  have  to  do. 

Colonel  Thomas  took  a  great  deal  more  pride  in 
his  sturdy  grandson  than  ever  he  had  been  able  to 
take  in  his  weakly  son.  He  taught  him  to  ride  and 
to  shoot,  and  to  tyrannise  over  his  six  maiden  aunts, 
who  all  took  a  hand  in  bringing  him  up.  His  own 
placid,  uncomplaining  wife  had  died  years  before,  and 
Lady  Susan  Clinton,  tired  of  living  in  a  house  where 
women  seemed  to  exist  on  sufferance,  had  married 
again,  but  had  not  been  allowed  to  take  her  child  to 
her  new  home.  She  had  the  legal  right  to  do  so,  of 
course,  but  was  far  too  frightened  of  the  weather- 
beaten,  keen-eyed  old  man,  who  could  say  such  cut- 
ting things  with  such  a  sweet  smile  upon  his  lips,  to 
insist  upon  it.  Her  second  husband  was  the  Rector 
of  a  neighbouring  parish,  who  grew  hot  to  the  end 
of  his  days  when  he  thought  of  what  he  had  under- 
gone to  gain  possession  of  his  bride.     He  did  not 


THE    RECTOR  95 

keep  her  long,  for  she  died  a  year  later  in  giving 
him  a  son.  That  son  was  now  the  Reverend  Thomas 
Beach,  Rector  of  Kencotc,  to  which  preferment  the 
Squire  had  appointed  him  nearly  thirty  years  before, 
when  he  was  only  just  of  canonical  age  to  receive  it. 
And  in  the  comfortable  Rectory  of  Kencote,  except 
for  a  year's  curacy  to  his  father,  he  had  lived  all 
his  clerical  life. 

The  Squire  and  the  Rector  were  not  altogether 
unlike  in  appearance.  They  were  both  tall  and 
well  covered  with  flesh,  and  there  was  a  family  re- 
semblance in  their  features.  But  the  Squire's  bigness 
and  ruddiness  were  those  of  a  man  who  took  much 
exercise  in  the  open  air,  the  Rector's  of  a  man  phys- 
ically indolent,  who  lived  too  much  indoors,  and  lived 
too  well. 

But  if  they  were  not  unlike  in  appearance,  they 
were  as  dissimilar  as  possible  in  character.  The 
Squire's  well-carried,  massive  frame  betokened  a  man 
who  considered  himself  to  have  a  right  to  hold  his 
head  high  and  plant  his  footsteps  firmly ;  the  Rector's 
big  body  disguised  a  sensitive,  timorous  character, 
and  a  soul  never  quite  at  ease  in  its  comfortable 
surroundings.  That  ponderous  weight  of  soft  flesh, 
insistent  on  warmth  and  good  food  and  much  rest, 
had  a  deal  to  answer  for.  Spare  and  active,  with 
adventures  of  the  spirit  not  discouraged  by  the  in- 
dolence of  the  flesh,  the  Rector  of  Kencote  might  have 
been  anything  in  the  way  of  a  saint  that  his  Church 
encourages.     He  would  certainly  not  have  been  Rec- 


96      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

tor  of  Kencote  for  thirty  years,  with  the  prospect 
of  being  Rector  of  Kencote  for  thirty  years  more  if 
he  lived  so  long.  He  had  a  simple,  lovable  soul. 
It  told  him  that  he  did  nothing  to  speak  of  in  return 
for  his  good  income  and  the  fine  house  in  which  he 
lived  in  such  comfort,  and  troubled  him  on  this  score 
more  than  it  would  have  troubled  a  man  with  less 
aptitude  for  goodness ;  and  it  omitted  to  tell  him 
that  he  had  more  direct  influence  for  righteousness 
than  many  a  man  who  would  have  consciously  exer- 
cised all  the  gifts  with  which  he  might  have  been 
endowed.  He  simply  could  not  bring  himself  to  visit 
his  parish  regularly,  two  or  three  afternoons  a  week, 
as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  when  he  was  first 
ordained.  The  afternoons  always  slipped  away  some- 
how, and  there  were  so  many  of  them.  The  next 
would  always  do.  So  it  had  been  for  the  first  years 
of  liis  pastorate,  and  he  had  long  since  given  way 
altogether  to  his  indolence  and  shyness  in  respect 
of  visiting  his  flock ;  but  his  conscience  still  troubled 
him  about  it.  He  was  a  great  reader,  but  his  reading 
had  become  quite  desultory,  and  he  now  read  only  for 
his  own,  entertainment.  His  sermons  were  poor ;  he 
had  no  delivery  and  no  gift  of  expression;  he  could 
not  even  give  utterance  to  the  ideas  that  did,  not 
infrequently,  act  on  his  brain,  nor  hardly  to  the 
human  tenderness  which  was  his  normal  attitude  to- 
wards mankind.  But  he  did  go  on  writing  fresh 
ones,  stilted  and  commonplace  as  they  were.  Mental 
activity  was   less   of  a  burden   to   him   than  bodily 


THE    RECTOR  97 

activity,  and  he  had  kept  himself  up  to  that  part  of 
what  he  thought  to  be  his  clerical  duty. 

For  the  rest,  he  was  fond  of  his  books  and  his 
garden,  fond  of  his  opulent,  well-appointed  house, 
and  all  that  it  contained,  and  fond  of  the  smaller 
distractions  of  a  country  life,  but  no  sportsman. 
He  had  no  children,  but  a  graceful,  very  feminine 
wife,  who  reacted  pleasantly  on  his  intellect  and 
looked  well  after  the  needs  of  his  body.  He  some- 
times went  to  London  for  a  week  or  two,  and  had 
been  to  Paris ;  but  he  liked  best  to  be  at  home.  He 
watched  the  progress  of  the  seasons  with  interest, 
and  knew  something  about  birds,  something  about 
flowers  and  trees,  was  a  little  of  a  weather  prophet, 
and  often  thought  he  would  study  some  branch  of 
natural  science,  but  had  lacked  the  energy  to  do  so. 
He  liked  the  winter  as  well  as  the  summer,  for  then 
his  warm  house  called  him  more  seductively.  He 
liked  to  tramp  home  along  muddy  country  roads 
in  the  gloaming,  drink  tea  in  his  wife's  pretty 
drawing-room,  chat  to  her  a  little,  and  then  go  into 
his  cosy,  book-lined  study  and  read  till  dinner-time. 
He  would  have  been  a  happy  man  as  a  layman, 
relieved  of  that  gnawing  conviction  that  his  placid, 
easy  life  was  rather  far  from  being  apostolic.  And 
nobody,  not  even  his  wife,  had  any  idea  that  he 
was  not  quite  contented,  and  grateful  for  the  good 
things  that  he  enjoyed. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  the  Squire,  "I'm  infernally 
worried    again.      It's   that  boy   Walter.      What   do 


98      THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

you  think  he  wants  to  do  now  ?  "  He  spoke  with 
none  of  the  heat  of  the  morning.  It  might  have 
been  thought  that  he  had  already  accepted  the 
inevitable  and  was  prepared  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

"  I  don't  know,  Edward,"  said  the  Rector ;  and 
the  Squire  told  him. 

"  And  you  have  a  particular  objection  to  this 
place,  Melbury  Park  ?  "  inquired  the  Rector  guile- 
lessly. 

"  O  my  dear  Tom,"  said  the  Squire  impatiently, 
"  have  you  ever  seen  the  place  ?  " 

"  From  the  railway  only,"  admitted  the  Rector ; 
"  and  chiefly  its  back-gardens.  It  left  an  impres- 
sion of  washing  on  my  mind." 

"  It  left  an  impression  of  not  washing  on  mine," 
said  the  Squire,  and  leant  back  in  his  chair  to  laugh 
heartily  at  his  witticism. 

The  Rector  also  did  justice  to  it,  perhaps  more 
than  justice,  with  a  kind  smile.  "  Well,  Edward," 
he  said,  "  it  may  be  so,  but  it  is,  otherwise,  I  should 
say,  respectable.  It  is  not  like  a  slum.  Has  Walter 
any  particular  reason  for  wishing  to  go  there?  " 

The  Squire  gave  a  grudging  summary  of  the  rea- 
sons Walter  had  advanced  for  wishing  to  go  there, 
and  made  them  appear  rather  ridiculous  reasons. 
He  also  produced  again  such  of  the  arguments  he 
had  advanced  at  breakfast-time  as  seemed  most 
weighty,  and  managed  to  work  himself  up  into  a  fair 
return  of  his  morning's  feeling  of  being  very  badly 
treated. 


THE    RECTOR  99 

"  Well,  Edward,"  said  the  Rector  gently,  when  he 
had  come  to  an  end,  "  I  think  if  I  were  you  I  should 
not  make  any  objections  to  Walter's  going  to  Mel- 
bury  Park." 

"You  wouldn't?"  asked  the  Squire,  rather 
weakly. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  would.  You  see,  my  dear 
Edward,  some  of  us  are  inclined  to  take  life  too 
easily.     I'm  sometimes  afraid  that  I  do  myself." 

"  You  do  your  duty,  Tom.  Nobody  is  asked  to 
do  more  than  that." 

"  Well,  you  may  be  right,  but  I  am  not  sure. 
However,  what  I  was  going  to  say  was  that  one 
cannot  help  respecting — perhaps  even  envying — a 
young  fellow  like  Walter  who  doesn't  want  to  take 
life  easily." 

"  He  has  stuck  to  his  work,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I 
will  say  that  for  the  boy ;  and  he's  never  come  to 
me  for  money  to  pay  bills  with,  as  Humphrey  has, 
and  even  Dick — though,  as  far  as  Dick  goes,  he'll 
have  the  property  some  day,  and  I  don't  grudge 
him  what  he  wants  now  within  reason." 

"  You  see,  Edward,  when  a  man  has  congenial 
work  which  takes  up  his  time,  he  is  not  apt  to  get 
into  mischief.  I  think,  if  I  may  say  so,  that  you 
ought  to  admit  now,  however  much  you  may  have 
objected  to  Walter's  choice  of  a  profession  in  the 
first  instance,  that  he  has  justified  his  choice.  He 
put  his  hand  to  the  plough  and  he  has  not  looked 
back.     That  is  a  good  deal  to  say  for  a  young  man 


100     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

with  Walter's  temptations  towards  an  easy,  perhaps 
idle,  Hfe." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  do  admit  it.  I  do 
admit  it,  Tom.  I  have  my  natural  prejudices,  but 
I'm  the  last  man  in  the  world  that  any  one  has  a 
right  to  call  obstinate.  I  objected  to  Walter  becom- 
ing a  doctor  in  the  first  instance.  It  was  natural  that 
I  should.  He  ought  to  have  succeeded  you,  as  Dick 
will  succeed  me.  And  none  of  our  family  have  ever 
been  doctors.  But  I  gave  way,  and  I've  every  wish, 
now,  that  he  should  succeed  in  his  profession.  And 
the  reason  I  object  to  this  move  so  strongly  is  that 
as  far  as  my  judgment  goes  it  is  not  a  step  in  the 
right  direction.  It  might  be  so  for  the  ordinary 
doctor — I  don't  know  and  I  can't  say — but  I'm  will- 
ing to  help  a  son  of  mine  over  some  of  the  drudgery, 
and  it  will  be  very  disagreeable  for  me  to  have  Walter 
settling  down  to  married  life  in  a  place  like  Melbury 
Park,  when  he  might  do  so  much  better.  You  must 
remember,  Tom,  that  he  is  the  first  of  the  boys  to 
get  married.  Dick  will  marry  some  day  soon,  I  hope 
and  trust,  and  Humphrey  too,  but  until  they  do, 
Walter's  son,  if  he  has  one,  will  be  heir  to  this  prop- 
erty, eventually.  He  ought  not  to  be  brought  up  in 
a  place  like  Melbury  Park." 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say,  Edward," 
replied  the  Rector,  who  privately  thought  that  there 
was  very  little ;  "  but  the  contingency  you  mention  is 
a  very  unlikely  one." 

"  I  don't  lay  too  much  stress  on  it.     If  I  thought 


THE    RECTOR  101 

that  Walter  was  right  from  the  point  of  rising  in  his 
profession  to  go  to  this  place  I  would  leave  all  that 
out  of  the  question." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Edward,"  said  the  Rec- 
tor, with  an  engaging  smile,  "  supposing  jou  keep  an 
open  mind  on  the  question  until  you  have  heard  what 
Walter  has  to  say  about  it.     How  would  that  be.''  " 

The  Squire  hummed  and  ha'd,  and  thought  that  on 
the  whole  it  might  be  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Rector  in  pursuance  of  his 
bright  idea,  "  it  is  just  possible  that  there  may  be 
reasons  which  Walter  has  considered,  and  may  wish 
to  urge,  that  might  make  it  advisable  for  him,  even 
with  the  exceptional  advantages  you  could  give  him, 
to  go  through  the  training  afforded  by  just  such  a 
practice  as  this.  I  should  let  him  urge  them,  Ed- 
ward, if  I  were  you.  I  should  let  him  urge  them. 
You  can  but  repeat  your  objections,  if  they  do  not 
appeal  to  your  judgment.  You  will  be  in  a  better 
position  to  make  your  own  views  tell,  if  you  dispose 
your  mind  to  listen  to  his.  I  should  take  a  kindly 
tone,  I  think,  if  I  were  you.  You  don't  want  to  set 
the  boy  against  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  want  that,"  said  the  Squire.  "  And 
I  should  have  done  what  you  advise,  in  any  case. 
It's  the  only  way,  of  course.  Let  us  go  in  and  have 
some  luncheon.  Then  you  don't  think,  Tom,  that 
there  would  be  any  serious  objection  to  my  giving 
way  on  this  point,  if  Walter  is  reasonable  about  it  ?  " 

**  Well,  Edward,  do  you  know,  I  really  don't  think 


102     THIE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

there  would,"  replied  the  Rector,  as  they  crossed  the 
hall  to  the  dining-room. 

The  ladies  were  already  there.  Mrs.  Beach  was 
by  the  window  talking  to  the  twins,  who  adored  her. 
She  was  getting  on  for  fifty,  but  she  was  still  a  pretty 
woman,  and  moved  gracefully  as  she  came  across 
the  room  to  shake  hands  with  her  brother-in-law. 
"  It  is  very  nice  to  see  you  back  again,  Edward,"  she 
said,  with  a  charming  smile.  "  You  do  not  look  as 
if  London  had  disagreed  with  you." 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  said  the  Squire,  holding  her 
white,  well-formed  hand  in  his  big  one.  "  I'll  tell 
you  my  private  opinion  of  London,  only  don't  let  it 
go  any  further.  It  can't  hold  a  candle  to  Kencote." 
Then  he  gave  a  hearty  laugh,  and  motioned  her  to  a 
seat  on  his  right.  The  twins  cast  a  look  of  intelli- 
gence at  one  another,  and  Cicely  glanced  at  her 
mother.     The  Squire  had  recovered  his  good  humour. 

"  For  these  an'  all  his  mercies,"  mumbled  the 
Squire,  bending  his  head. — "  Oh,  beg  your  pardon, 
Tom,"  and  the  Rector  said  grace. 

"  Have  you  heard  what  that  silly  fellow  Walter 
wants  to  do,  Grace  ?  "  asked  the  Squire. 

"  Nothing  except  that  he  hopes  to  get  married 
next  month,"  replied  Mrs.  Beach,  helping  herself  to 
an  omelette,  "  and  I  hope  that  he  will  make  a  better 
husband  than  Tom." 

The  Rector,  already  busy,  spared  her  a  glance  of 
appreciation,  and  the  twins  giggled  at  the  humour  of 
their  favourite. 


THE    RECTOR  103 

"  Yes,  he  is  going  to  be  married,  and  he  proposes 
to  take  Muriel  to  Hve  at  Melburj  Park,  of  all  places 
in  the  world." 

"  Then  in  that  case,"  replied  Mrs.  Beach  equably, 
"  Tom  and  I  will  not  give  them  the  grand  piano  we 
had  fixed  upon  for  a  wedding  present.  They  must 
content  themselves  with  the  railway  whistles." 

The  twins  laughed  outright  and  were  ineffectively 
rebuked  by  Miss  Bird.  That  they  were  to  be  seen 
and  not  heard  at  table  was  a  maxim  she  had  dili- 
gently instilled  into  them.  But  they  were  quite 
right  to  laugh.  Aunt  Grace  was  surpassing  herself. 
She  always  kept  the  Squire  in  a  good  humour,  by 
her  read}^  little  jokes  and  the  well-disguised  deference 
she  paid  him.  The  deference  was  not  offered  to 
him  alone,  but  to  all  men  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact,  even  her  husband,  and  men  liked  her 
immensely.  She  teased  them  boldly,  but  she  deferred 
to  their  manhood.  Women  sometimes  grew  tired  of 
her  sweetness  of  manner,  which  was  displayed  to  them 
too,  and  quite  naturally.  She  was  a  sweet  woman, 
if  also,  in  spite  of  her  ready  tongue,  rather  a  shallow 
one.  Mrs.  Clinton  did  not  like  her,  but  did  not 
show  it,  except  in  withholding  her  confidence,  and 
Mrs.  Beach  had  no  idea  that  they  were  not  intimate. 
Cicely  was  indifferent  towards  her,  but  had  loved  her 
as  a  child,  for  the  same  reason  that  the  twins  thought 
her  the  most  charming  of  womankind,  because  she 
treated  them  as  if  they  were  her  equals  in  intelligence, 
as  no  doubt  they  were.    It  had  never  occurred  to  them 


104     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

to  mimic  her,  which  was  a  feather  in  her  cap  if  she 
had  known  it.  And  another  was  that  Miss  Bird 
adored  her,  being  made  welcome  in  her  house,  and, 
as  she  said,  treated  like  anybody  else. 

By  the  time  luncheon  was  over  the  Squire  had  so 
overcome  his  bitter  resentment  at  the  idea  of  Walter's 
going  to  live  at  Melbury  Park,  that  he  could  afford 
to  joke  about  it.  Aunt  Grace  had  suggested  that 
they  should  all  go  and  live  there,  and  had  so  amused 
the  Squire  with  a  picture  of  himself  coming  home 
to  his  villa  in  the  evening  and  eating  his  dinner  in 
the  kitchen  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  carpet  slippers 
on  his  feet,  which  was  possibly  the  picture  in  her 
mind  of  "  how  the  poor  live,"  that  he  was  in  the  best 
of  humours,  and  drank  two  more  glasses  of  port 
than  his  slightly  gouty  tendency  usually  permitted. 

The  twins  persuaded  Miss  Bird  to  take  them  to 
the  station  to  meet  Walter  in  the  afternoon.     They 
were  not  allowed  to  go  outside  the  park  by  them- 
selves, and  walked  down  the  village  on  either  side 
of  the  old  starling,  each  of  them  over-topping  her 
by  half  a  head,  like  good  girls,  as  she  said  herself. 
They    wore    cool    white    dresses,    and    shady    hats 
trimmed  with  poppies,  and  looked  a  picture.     When 
they  reached  the  by-road  to  the  station,  Joan  said, 
"One,   two,  three,   and   away,"   and  they   shot  like 
darts   from  the   side  of  their  instructress,  arriving 
on  the  platform  flushed  and  laughing,  not  at  all  like 
good   girls,   while   Miss   Bird  panted   in   their  rear, 
clucking  threats  and  remonstrances,  to  the  respect- 


THE    RECTOR  105 

ful  but  undisguised  amusement  of  the  porter,  and 
the  groom  who  had  preceded  them  with  the  dog-cart. 

Walter  got  out  of  a  third-class  carriage  when  the 
train  drew  up  and  said,  "  Hullo,  twanky-diddleses ! 
Oh,  my  adorable  Sturna  vulgaris  vetus,  embrace  me! 
Come  to  my  arms !  " 

"  Now,  Walter,  do  behave,"  said  Miss  Bird  sharply. 
"  What  will  people  think  and  Joan  'n  Nancy  I  shall 
certainly  tell  Mrs.  Clinton  of  your  disgraceful  be- 
haviour I  am  quite  ashamed  of  you  running  off  like 
that  which  you  know  you  are  not  allowed  to  do 
you  are  very  naughty  girls  and  I  am  seriously  dis- 
pleased with  you." 

"  Ellen  Bird,"  said  Walter,  "  don't  try  and  put  it 
on  to  the  twankies.  I  looked  out  of  the  carriage 
window  and  saw  you  sprinting  along  the  station 
road  yourself.  You  have  had  a  little  race  and  are 
annoyed  at  being  beaten.  I  shall  put  you  up  in  the 
cart  and  send  you  home,  and  I  will  walk  back  with 
the  twankies."  And  in  spite  of  Miss  Bird's  almost 
frenzied  remonstrances,  up  into  the  cart  she  w^as 
helped,  and  driven  off  at  a  smart  pace,  with  cheers 
from  the  twins,  now  entirely  beyond  her  control. 

"  Well,  twanky  dears,"  said  Walter,  starting  off 
at  a  smart  pace  with  a  twin  on  either  side,  "  I  sup- 
pose there's  a  deuce  of  a  bust  up,  eh.'^  Look  here, 
you  can't  hang  on.     It's  too  hot." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  too  hot  for  Muriel  to  hang  on," 
said  Joan,  her  arm  having  been  returned  to  her. 

"  There  was  a  bust  up  this  morning  at  breakfast," 


106     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

said  Nancy.  "  Edward  came  in  purple  with  passion 
two  minutes  late  for  prayers." 

"Eh?"  said  Walter  sharply.  "Look  here,  you 
mustn't  speak  of  the  governor  like  that." 

"  It's  only  her  new  trick,"  said  Joan.  "  She'll 
get  tired  of  it." 

"  You're  not  to  do  it,  Nancy,  do  you  hear  ?  "  said 
Walter. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Nancy.  "Mr.  Clinton  of 
Kencote,  J.P.,  D.L.,  was  so  put  out  that  he  wouldn't 
kneel  down  to  say  his  prayers." 

"  Annoyed,  eh?  "  said  Walter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joan,  "  but  he's  all  right  now,  Walter. 
Aunt  Grace  came  to  lunch,  and  beat  Bogey." 

"  What !  " 

"  It's  only  her  new  trick,"  said  Nancy.  "  She'll 
get  tired  of  it.  She  means  put  him  in  a  good 
humour." 

"  Really,  you  twankies  do  pick  up  some  language. 
Then  there's  nothing  much  to  fear,  what.^  " 

"  No,  we  are  all  coming  to  live  at  Melbury  Park, 
and  Aunt  Grace  is  going  to  take  in  our  washing." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  line  taken,  is  it?  "  said  Walter. 
"  Well,  I  dare  say  it's  all  very  funny,  but  I  can't 
have  you  twankies  giving  yourselves  airs,  you  know. 
I  don't  know  why  they  talk  over  things  before  you. 
The  governor  might  have  kept  it  to  himself  until 
he  had  seen  me." 

"  Mr.  Clinton  doesn't  keep  things  to  himself,"  said 
Nancy.     "  You  might  know  that  by  this  time ;  and 


THE    RECTOR  107 

Joan  and  I  are  quite  old  enough  to  take  an  intelligent 
interest  in  family  affairs.  We  do  take  the  deepest 
interest  in  them,  and  we  know  a  lot.  Little  pitchers 
have  long  ears,   you   know." 

"  So  have  donkeys,  and  they  get  them  pinched  if 
they're  not  careful,"  retorted  Walter.  "  How  are 
you  getting  on  with  your  lessons,  twankies  ?  " 

"  I  believe  our  progress  is  quite  satisfactory,  thank 
you.  Dr.  Clinton,"  replied  Joan.  "  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  hear  us  a  few  dates,  so  that  our  after- 
noon walk  may  not  pass  entirely  unimproved." 

"  You  had  much  better  look  at  Joan's  tongue," 
said  Nancy.  "  Starling  said  last  night  that  her 
stomach  was  a  little  out  of  order,  and  we  rebuked 
her  for  her  vulgarity." 

"  You  are  a  record  pair,  you  two,"  said  Walter, 
looking  at  them  with  unwilling  admiration.  "  I  don't 
believe  any  of  us  led  that  poor  old  woman  the  dance 
that  you  do.    Do  you  want  some  jumbles,  twankies.'^  " 

"  lR.a-ther,''  said  the  twins  with  one  voice,  and  they 
turned  into  the  village  shop. 

The  tea-table  was  spread  on  the  lawn,  and  the 
Squire  came  out  of  the  window  of  the  library  as 
Walter  reached  the  garden.  "  Well,  my  boy,"  he 
said,  "  so  you're  going  to  settle  down  at  Melbury 
Park,  are  you.''  That's  a  nice  sort  of  thing  to 
spring  on  us  ;  but  good  luck  to  you !  You  can  always 
come  down  here  when  you  want  a  holiday." 


CHAPTER    VIII 


BY    THE    LAKE 


Whitsuntide  that  year  fell  early  in  June,  and  the 
weather  was  glorious.  Cicely  awoke  on  Friday  morn- 
ing with  a  sense  of  happiness.  She  slept  with  her 
blinds  up,  and  both  her  windows  were  wide  open.  She 
could  see  from  her  pillow  a  great  red  mass  of  peonies 
backed  by  dark  shrubs  across  the  lawn,  and  in  an- 
other part  of  the  garden  laburnums  and  lilacs  and 
flowering  thorns,  and  all  variations  of  young  green 
from  trees  and  grass  under  a  sky  of  light  blue. 
Thrushes  and  blackbirds  were  piping  sweetly.  She 
loved  these  fresh  mornings  of  early  summer,  and  had 
often  wakened  to  them  with  that  slight  palpitation  of 
happiness. 

But,  when  she  was  fully  awake,  it  had  generally 
happened  that  the  pleasure  had  rather  faded,  at 
any  rate  of  late  years,  since  she  had  grown  up.  In 
her  childhood  it  had  been  enough  to  have  the  long 
summer  day  in  front  of  her,  especially  in  holiday 
time,  when  there  would  be  no  irksome  schoolroom 
restraint,  nothing  but  the  pleasures  and  adventures 
of  the  open  air.  But  lately  she  had  needed  more, 
and  more,  at  Kencote,  had  seldom  been  forthcoming. 
Moreover  she  had  hardly  known  what  the  "  more  " 
was  that  she  had  wanted.     She  had  never  been  un- 

108 


BY    THE    LAKE  109 

happy,  but  only  vaguely  dissatisfied,  and  sometimes 
bored. 

This  morning  her  waking  sense  of  well-being  did 
not  fade  as  she  came  to  full  consciousness,  but 
started  into  full  pleasure  as  she  remembered  that 
her  cousins,  Angela  and  Beatrice  Birket,  with  their 
father  and  mother,  were  in  the  house.  And  Dick 
and  Humphrey  had  come  down  with  them  the  even- 
ing before.  Guests  were  so  rare  at  Kencote  that  to 
have  a  party  of  them  was  a  most  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. Dick  and  Humphrey  would  see  that  there  was 
plenty  of  amusement  provided,  quiet  enough  amuse- 
ment for  them,  no  doubt,  but  for  Cicely  high  pleas- 
ure, with  something  to  do  all  the  day  long,  and  people 
whom  she  liked  to  do  it  with. 

And — oh  yes — Jim  had  returned  home  from  his 
travels  the  day  before,  and  would  be  sure  to  come 
over,  probably  early  in  the  morning. 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  put  on  her  dressing-gown, 
and  went  to  the  window.  The  clock  from  the  stable 
turret  struck  six,  but  she  really  could  not  lie  in  bed 
on  such  a  morning  as  this,  with  so  much  about  to 
happen.  She  would  dress  and  go  out  into  the  gar- 
den. A  still  happier  thought — she  would  go  down 
to  the  lake  and  bathe  from  the  Temple  of  Melancholy. 
It  was  early  in  the  year,  but  the  weather  had  been 
so  warm  for  the  last  month  that  it  was  not  too  early 
to  begin  that  summer  habit.  Perhaps  the  twins  would 
come  with  her.     They  were  early  risers. 

She  was  just  about  to  turn  away  from  the  window 


110     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

when  she  saw  the  twins  themselves  steal  round  the 
corner  of  the  house.  Their  movements  were  mys- 
terious. Although  there  was  nobody  about,  they 
trod  on  tiptoe  across  the  broad  gravel  path  and  on 
to  the  dewy  lawn.  Joan — she  could  always  tell  them 
apart,  although  to  the  outside  world  they  were  identi- 
cal in  form  and  feature — carried  a  basket  which 
probably  contained  provisions,  a  plentiful  supply 
of  which  was  generally  included  in  the  elaborate  ar- 
rangements the  twins  made  for  their  various  games  of 
adventure.  There  was  nothing  odd  in  this,  but  what 
was  rather  odd  was  that  she  also  held  a  long  rope, 
the  other  end  of  which  was  tied  around  Nancy's 
neck,  while  Nancy's  hands  were  knotted  behind  her. 

When  they  got  on  to  the  grass  they  both  turned 
at  the  same  moment  to  glance  up  at  the  windows 
of  the  house,  and  caught  sight  of  Cicely,  who  then 
perceived  that  Joan's  features  were  hidden  by  a 
mask  of  black  velvet.  She  saw  them  draw  together 
and  take  counsel,  and  then,  without  speaking,  beckon 
her  insistently  to  join  them.  She  nodded  her  head 
and  went  back  into  the  room,  smiling  to  herself,  while 
the  twins  pursued  their  mysterious  course  towards  the 
shrubberies.  She  thought  she  would  not  bathe  after 
all;  but  she  dressed  quickly  and  went  down  into  the 
garden,  a  little  curious  to  learn  what  new  invention 
the  children  were  busying  themselves  with. 

It  proved  to  be  nothing  more  original  than  the 
old  game  of  buccaneers.  Nancy  had  awakened  to  find 
herself  neatly  trussed  to   her  bed   and   Joan   in   an 


BY   THE   LAKE  111 

unfinished  state  of  attire,  but  wearing  the  black  vel- 
vet mask,  brandishing  in  her  face  a  horse  pistol, 
annexed  from  the  collection  of  old-fashioned  weapons 
in  the  hall.  Thus  overpowered  she  had  succumbed 
philosophically.  It  was  the  fortune  of  war,  and  if 
she  had  thought  of  it  she  might  just  as  well  have 
been  kneeling  on  Joan's  chest,  as  Joan  was  kneeling, 
somewhat  oppressively,  on  hers.  Given  her  choice  of 
walking  the  plank  from  the  punt  on  the  lake  or  being 
marooned  on  the  rhododendron  island,  she  had  ac- 
cepted the  latter  alternative,  stipulating  for  an  ade- 
quate supply  of  food ;  and  a  truce  having  been  called, 
while  pirate  and  victim  made  their  toilets  and  raided 
together  for  the  necessary  rations,  she  had  then  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  bound  and  led  off  to  the  shore 
where  the  pirate  ship  was  beached. 

All  this  was  explained  to  Cicely — the  search  for 
provisions  having  no  particular  stress  laid  on  it — 
when  she  joined  them,  and  she  was  awarded  the  part 
of  the  unhappy  victim's  wife,  who  was  to  gaze  across 
the  water  and  tear  her  hair  in  despair  at  being  unable 
to  go  to  the  rescue. 

"  You  must  rend  the  air  with  your  cries,"  Joan 
instructed  her,  "  not  too  loud,  because  we  don't  want 
any  one  to  hear.  The  pirate  king  will  then  appear 
on  the  scene,  and  stalking  silently  up  behind  you — 
well,  you'll  see.     I  won't  hurt  you." 

Nancy  was  already  comfortably  marooned.  She 
could  be  seen  relieved  of  her  bonds  seated  amongst 
the  rhododendrons,  which  were  in  full  flower  on  the 


112     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

island  and  all  round  the  lake,  making  her  first  soli- 
tary meal  off  cold  salmon  and  a  macedoine  of  fruit, 
and  supporting  her  painful  situation  with  for- 
titude. 

Cicely  accepted  her  role,  but  dispensed  with  the 
business  of  tearing  her  hair.  "  O  my  husband !  " 
she  cried,  stretching  her  arms  across  the  water. 
"  Shall  I  never  see  thee  more.^*  What  foul  ruffian 
has  treated  thee  thus.?  " 

"  Very  good,"  said  Nancy,  with  her  mouth  full — 
she  was  only  twenty  yards  away — "  keep  it  up.  Sis." 

"  I  will  not  rest  until  I  have  discovered  the  mis- 
creant and  taken  his  life,"  proceeded  Cicely. 

"  Shed  his  blood,"  corrected  Nancy.  "  Say  some- 
thing about  my  bones  bleaching  on  the  shore." 

"  Thy  bones  will  bleach  on  the  shore,"  Cicely 
obeyed.  "  And  I,  a  disconsolate  widow,  will  wander 
up  and  down  this  cruel  strand — oh,  don't,  Joan,  you 
are  hurting." 

For  she  found  herself  in  the  grip  of  the  pirate 
king,  who  hissed  in  her  ear,  "  Ha,  ha,  fair  damsel ! 
Thou  art  mine  at  last.  'Twas  for  love  of  thee  I 
committed  this  deed.  Thy  lily-livered  husband  lies 
at  my  mercy,  and  once  in  Davy  Jones's  locker  will 
be  out  of  my  path.  Then  the  wedding  bells  shall  ring 
and  we  will  sail  together  over  the  bounding  main. 
Gently,  gently,  pretty  dove!  Do  not  struggle.  I 
will  not  hurt  thee." 

"  Unhand  me,  miscreant,"  cried  Cicely.  "  Think 
you  that  I  would  forget  my  brave  and  gallant  hus- 


BY    THE    LAKE  113 

band  for  such  as  thou,  steeped  in  crime  from  head  to 
foot?     Unhand  me,  I  say.     Help!     Help!" 

"  Peace,  pretty  one ! "  cooed  the  pirate  king. 
"  Thou  art  in  my  power  and  thy  cries  do  not  daunt 
me.  I  have  only  to  lift  my  voice  and  my  brave 
crew  will  be  all  around  me.  Better  come  with  me 
quietly.  There  is  a  cabin  prepared  for  thee  in  my 
gallant  barque.  None  shall  molest  thee.  Cease  strug- 
gling and  come  with  me." 

Urged  towards  the  shore  by  the  pirate  king, 
Cicely  redoubled  her  cries  for  assistance,  but  no  one 
was  more  surprised  than  she  to  see  an  elderly  gentle- 
man in  a  grey  flannel  suit  and  a  straw  hat  bound 
from  behind  the  bushes,  level  a  latch-key  at  the 
head  of  the  masked  bandit,  and  cry,  "  Loose  her, 
perjured  villain,  or  thy  brains  shall  strew  the  sand." 

Nancy's  clear,  delighted  laugh  came  from  the 
island,  Joan  giggled  and  said,  "  O  Uncle  Herbert !  " 

"  Uncle  me  no  Herberts,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  Put 
up  your  hands  or  I  shoot.  (Cicely,  if  you  will  kindly 
swoon  in  my  arms — Thank  you.)  Know,  base  buc- 
caneer, that  I  represent  his  Britannic  Majesty  on 
these  seas,  and  wherever  the  British  flag  flies  there  is 
liberty.     Allow  me  to  disarm  you  of  your  weapon." 

"  I  yield  to  superior  force,"  said  the  bold  buccaneer 
in  stately  tones. 

"  Very  wise  of  you.  I  should  fold  my  arms  and 
scowl  if  I  were  you.  Behold,  the  lady  cometh  to. 
She  is,  yes  she  is,  the  daughter  I  have  mourned  these 
many  years.     And  you,  base  marauder,  though  you 


114     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

know  it  not,  are  the  long-lost  brother  of  that  luckless 
wight  starving,  if  I  mistake  not,  to  death  on  the 
island.  Well  for  you  that  your  hands  are  not  im- 
brued in  his  gore.  Put  off  at  once  in  your  stout 
ship — and  be  careful  not  to  tumble  overboard — and 
restore  him  to  his  hapless  bride." 

"  I  will  obey  your  bidding,"  said  the  pirate  king 
proudly.  "  The  claims  of  relationship  are  para- 
mount." 

"  Well  put.  I  have  hopes  of  you  yet.  I  am  also 
hungry.  Bring  back  the  victim's  basket,  and  we 
will  eat  together  and  forget  this  unfortunate  occur- 
rence." 

Joan  punted  across  to  the  island  and  the  marooned 
Nancy  was  brought  to  the  mainland  with  her  some- 
what depleted  store  of  provisions.  Mr.  Birket  dropped 
his  role  while  the  embarkation  proceeded,  and  mopped 
his  brow  with  a  bandana  handkerchief.  He  was  a 
short,  grey-haired  man  with  a  keen  lawyer's  face. 
"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Cicely,  "  I  think  that 
went  off  very  well,  but  it  is  somewhat  exhaust- 
ing." 

Cicely  laughed.  "  The  twins  will  never  forget  it," 
she  said.    "  Did  you  see  them  come  out.?  " 

"  I  saw  them  come  on  to  the  lake.  I  was  in  the 
Temple,  getting  through   a  little  work." 

"  What  ever  time  did  you  get  up.^^  " 

"  Oh,  half-past  five.  My  regular  hour  in  the 
summer.  I'm  kept  pretty  busy,  my  dear.  But  I 
don't  generally  have  such  a  charming  place  as  this 


BY   THE   LAKE  115 

to  work  in.  Now  then,  pirate,  hurry  up  with  those 
victuals.     Your  uncle  is  hungry." 

They  picnicked  on  the  shore — the  twins'  provision- 
ing having  fortunately  been  ample — and  Mr.  Birket 
proved  himself  an  agreeable  companion.  Joan  said 
to  Nancy  afterwards  that  the  practice  of  the  law 
seemed  to  brighten  people's  brains  wonderfully.  He 
smoked  a  cigar,  told  them  stories,  and  made  them 
laugh.  At  half-past  eight  he  fetched  his  papers 
from  the  Temple  and  they  went  indoors  to  get  ready 
for  breakfast,  "  I  think,"  he  said,  as  they  crossed 
the  lawn,  "  we  had  better  say  nothing  about  the 
startling  occurrences  of  the  morning.  They  might 
come  as  a  shock  to  our  elders  and  betters."  And 
Joan  and  Nancy,  remembering  the  contents  of  the 
basket  and  the  source  from  which  they  had  been 
derived,  agreed. 

Herbert  Birket  was  Mrs.  Clinton's  only  brother. 
Their  father  had  been  a  Colonel  in  the  Indian  Army, 
and  had  retired  to  end  his  da3'S  in  a  little  house  on 
the  outskirts  of  Bathgate,  desiring  nothing  more 
than  to  read  the  Times  through  every  morning  and 
find  something  in  it  to  disagree  with,  walk  so  many 
miles  a  day,  see  his  son  well  started  in  the  profession 
he  had  chosen,  and  his  daughter  well,  but  not  splen- 
didly, married.  He  had  gained  his  desires  in  all  but 
the  last  item.  The  young  Squire  of  Kencote,  in  all 
the  glory  of  his  wide  inheritance  and  his  lieutenancy 
in  the  Household  Cavalry,  had  ridden  past  the  little 
house  on  his  way  to  Bathgate  and  seen  a  quiet,  un- 


116     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

assuming,  fair-haired  girl  watering  her  flowers  in 
the  garden,  had  fallen  in  love  with  her,  met  her  at 
a  county  ball,  fallen  still  more  deeply  in  love,  and 
finally  carried  her  off  impetuously  from  the  double- 
fronted  villa  in  the  Bathgate  Road  to  rule  over  his 
great  house  at  Kencote. 

South  Meadshire  had  rung  with  the  romance,  and 
old  Colonel  Birket  had  not  been  altogether  delighted 
with  his  daughter's  good  fortune,  wishing  to  spend 
his  last  days  in  peace  and  not  in  glory.  The  wedding 
had  taken  place  in  London,  with  a  respectable  show 
of  relations  on  the  bride's  side  and  all  the  accompani- 
ments of  semi-military  parade  on  the  bridegroom's. 
There  was  no  talk  of  a  misalliance  on  the  part  of  his 
friends,  nor  was  there  a  misalliance,  for  the  Birkets 
were  good  enough  people;  but  the  young  Squire's 
six  maiden  aunts  had  returned  to  the  dower-house 
at  Kencote  after  the  wedding  and  shaken  their  re- 
spective heads.  No  good  would  come  of  it,  they 
said,  and  had,  perhaps,  been  a  little  disappointed 
ever  afterwards  that  no  harm  had  come  of  it,  at  any 
rate  to  their  nephew. 

The  old  Colonel  had  long  since  been  laid  in  his 
grave,  and  the  little  house  in  the  Bathgate  Road, 
now  in  the  respectable  occupancy  of  a  retired  drug- 
gist, would  have  seemed  as  strange  a  dwelling-place 
to  the  daughters  of  Herbert  Birket,  who  had  pros- 
pered exceedingly,  as  to  the  children  of  Mrs.  Clinton 
of  Kencote. 

Angela  and  Beatrice  Birket  were  handsome  girls, 


BY   THE    LAKE  117 

both  of  them  younger  than  Cicely,  but  w^h  their 
assured  manners  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  looking 
older.  They  had  been  brought  up  strictly  by  their 
mother,  who  had  paid  great  attention  to  their  educa- 
tion. They  might  have  been  seen  during  their  child- 
hood on  any  reasonably  fine  afternoon  walking  in 
Kensington  Gardens  or  Hyde  Park  with  a  highly 
priced  French  governess,  two  well,  but  plainly 
dressed  children  with  long,  straight  hair  and  com- 
posed faces.  They  never  appeared  in  their  mother's 
drawing-room  when  visitors  were  there,  being  em- 
ployed in  a  room  upstairs  either  at  lessons,  or  con- 
suming the  plainest  variety  of  schoolroom  tea.  They 
were  taken  sometimes  to  an  afternoon  concert,  and 
on  very  rare  occasions  to  a  play.  When  they  were 
at  home  in  London,  their  days  were  given  to  their 
lessons,  with  the  requisite  amount  of  regular  exercise 
to  keep  them  in  good  health.  In  holiday  time,  in  the 
summer,  at  Christmas  and  at  Easter,  they  were  al- 
lowed to  run  quite  wild,  in  old  clothes  at  some  out- 
of-the-way  seaside  place,  in  country  farmhouses, 
where  they  scrambled  about  on  ponies  and  amongst 
ducks  and  chickens,  or  in  the  country  houses  of  their 
friends  and  relations,  where  there  were  other  chil- 
dren of  their  age  for  them  to  play  with.  So  they  had 
loved  the  country  and  hated  London,  and  had  never 
been  so  surprised  in  their  lives  as  when  they  were  duly 
presented  and  launched  in  society  to  find  that  London 
was  the  most  amusing  place  in  the  world  and  that  all 
the  pains  and  drudgery  to  which  they  had  been  put 


118     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

there  had  prepared  them  for  the  enjoyment  of  the 
manifold  interests  and  pleasures  that  came  in  their 
way.  They  had  developed  quickly,  and  those  who 
had  known  them  in  their  rather  subdued  childhood 
would  hardly  have  known  them  now. 

Of  all  the  places  in  which  they  had  spent  their 
holidays  in  days  gone  by  they  had  liked  Kencote 
best.  It  had  been  a  paradise  of  fun  and  freedom 
for  them;  they  and  Cicely  had  been  happy  from 
morning  till  night.  The  elder  boys  home  from  school 
or  college  had  been  kind  to  them,  and  Frank,  the 
sailor,  who  was  about  their  own  age,  and  not  too 
proud  to  make  a  companion  of  his  sister  and  cousins, 
had  led  the  way  in  all  their  happy  adventures.  And 
they  had  loved  the  twins,  whom  they  had  seen  grow 
up  from  babyhood.  No,  there  had  been  no  place  like 
Kencote  in  the  old  days,  and  the  pleasure  of  a  visit 
there  still  persisted,  although  it  was  no  longer  the 
most  congenial  house  at  which  they  visited. 

All  the  party  assembled  for  prayers  in  the  dining- 
room.  That  was  understood  to  be  the  rule.  The 
twins  were  there,  very  clean  and  well  brushed  and 
very  demure.  Mr.  Birket  wished  them  good-morning 
solemnly  and  hoped  that  they  had  slept  well,  at  which 
they  giggled  and  were  rebuked  by  Miss  Bird,  when 
their  uncle  turned  away  to  ask  the  same  question  of 
Cicely.  As  Miss  Bird  said, — What  would  their  uncle 
think  of  them  if  they  could  not  answer  a  civil  question 
without  behaving  in  that  silly  fashion.?  At  which 
they  giggled  again.     Angela  and  Beatrice,  tall  and 


BY   THE   LAKE  119 

glossy-haired,  dressed  in  white,  made  a  handsome 
quartet  with  Dick  and  Humphrey,  the  one  in  smart 
grey  flannel,  the  other  in  white. 

"  This  little  rest  will  do  you  both  good,"  said  Dick. 
"  You  shall  lie  about,  and  Miss  Bird  shall  read  to 
you.  You  will  go  back  to  the  excitements  of  the 
metropolis  thoroughly  refreshed." 

"  Oh,  we  are  going  to  be  very  energetic,"  said 
Angela.  "  We  want  to  play  lawn  tennis,  for  one 
thing.  One  never  gets  a  chance  nowadays,  and  we 
both  hate  croquet." 

"  We'll  get  up  a  tournament,"  said  Humphrey, 
"  and  invite  the  neighbourhood.  You'll  see  some  queer 
specimens.     I  hear  you're  writing  a  book,  Trixie." 

Beatrice  laughed,  and  blushed  a  little.  "  I've  left 
off*,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  I've  heard  stories  about  you,"  said  Dick. 
"  Soon  have  something  else  to  do,  eh.^  Don't  blush. 
I  won't  tell  anybody.  Look  here,  we'll  play  golf 
this  morning.  We  laid  out  quite  a  decent  little 
course  in  the  park  last  autumn.  And  in  the  after- 
noon we'll  have  a  picnic." 

"  Oh,  preser\^e  us !  "  said  Humphrey. 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  have  a  picnic,"  said  Angela. 

"  It  will  be  like  old  times,"  said  Beatrice. 

"We'll  go  to  Blackborough  Castle,"  said  Dick, 
"  and  take  the  twankies.  We  must  give  them  a  little 
fun.     Siskin,  how  about  a  picnic.'^  " 

Mrs.  Birket  was  telling  Mrs.  Clinton  that  Bea- 
trice's  engagement  would  be   announced  when  they 


120     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

returned  to  London.  "  She  is  young,"  she  said,  "  but 
both  the  girls  are  older  in  mind  than  in  age." 

"  You  have  educated  them  well,"  Mrs.  Clinton 
said.  She  looked  across  the  room  at  the  two  hand- 
some, smiling  girls,  and  at  her  own  pretty  daughter, 
who  had  not  been  very  well  educated  and  was  not 
older  in  mind  than  in  age.  But  just  then  the  gong 
sounded,  every  one  took  their  seats,  the  Squire 
came  in  with  a  hearty  "Good-morning!  Good- 
morning  !  "  which  greeting  his  assembled  family  and 
guests  might  take  and  divide  amongst  them,  and  the 
proceedings  of  the  day  began. 

Later  in  the  morning  Angela  and  Beatrice,  Dick 
and  Humphrey  were  actively  engaged  at  lawn  tennis. 
Cicely  was  sitting  under  a  great  lime  on  the  lawn 
waiting  for  her  turn.  The  twins,  having  discovered 
an  unusually  congenial  companion  in  their  uncle,  had 
carried  him  off  somewhere  out  of  sight,  and  Cicely 
was  alone  for  the  moment.  A  voice  behind  her, 
"  Hullo,  Cicely ! "  made  her  start,  and  then  she 
sprang  up.  "  Jim!  "  she  cried.  "  How  jolly  to  see 
you  back!  I  thought  you  would  come  over  this 
morning." 

The  game  had  to  be  interrupted  while  the  returned 
traveller  was  welcomed.  "  You  look  as  fit  as  a  fiddle, 
old  boy,"  said  Dick.  "  You'll  be  able  to  stay  at  home 
and  enjoy  yourself  now,  I  hope.  Will  you  play  when 
we've  finished  this.?     I  can  lend  you  a  pair  of  shoes." 

"No  thanks,"  said  Jim.  "I'll  talk  to  Cicely." 
So  the  others  went  back  on  to  the  lawn. 


BY    THE   LAKE  121 

"  Come  and  have  a  stroll  round,"  Jim  suggested ; 
and  Cicely,  with  a  half-regretful  glance  at  the  tennis 
lawn,  rose  to  go  with  him. 

They  went  to  the  rhododendron  dell  round  the 
lake.  It  was  where  every  one  went  naturally  if  they 
wanted  to  walk  and  talk  at  the  same  time.  Jim's 
honest,  weathered  face  was  very  frequently  turned 
towards  Cicely's  fair,  young  one,  and  there  was  a 
light  in  his  eyes  which  made  her  turn  hers  away  a 
little  confusedly  when  they  met  it.  But  Jim's  voice 
was  level  enough,  and  his  speech  ordinary.  "  I'm 
jolly  glad  to  get  back  again,"  he  said.  "  I've  never 
liked  Mountfield  half  so  well.  I  was  up  at  six  o'clock 
this  morning,  and  out  and  about." 

"  So  was  I,"  said  Cicely,  and  she  told  him,  laugh- 
ing, of  the  events  of  the  morning. 

"  I  expect  they've  grown,  those  young  beggars," 
said  Jim,  alluding  thus  disrespectfully  to  the 
twins.  "  I've  often  thought  of  them  while  I've  been 
away,  and  of  everybody  at  Kencote — you  espe- 
cially." 

"We've  all  thought  of  you,  too,"  said  Cicely, 
"  and  talked  about  you.  You  haven't  been  forgotten, 
Jim." 

"  I  hoped  I  shouldn't  be,"  he  said  simply.  "  By 
Jove,  how  I've  looked  forward  to  this — coming  over 
here  the  first  moment  I  could.  I  wish  you  hadn't  got 
all  these  people  here,  though." 

"  All  these  people !  "  echoed  Cicely.  "  Why,  Jim, 
you  know  them  as  well  as  we  do." 


122     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  selfish  beggar.  I  wanted  to  have  you 
all  to  myself." 

Cicely  was  a  little  disturbed  in  her  mind.  Jim 
had  not  talked  to  her  like  this  for  five  years.  Ever 
since  that  long,  happy  summer  when  he  and  she  had 
been  together  nearly  every  day,  when  he  had  made 
love  to  her  in  his  slow,  rather  ponderous  way,  and 
she,  her  adolescence  flattered,  had  said  "  yes  "  when 
he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him — or  rather  ever 
since  he  had  written  to  her  from  Oxford  to  say  that 
he  must  wait  for  some  years  before  he  could  expect 
to  marry  and  that  she  was  to  consider  herself  quite 
free — he  had  never  by  word  or  sign  shown  whether 
he  also  considered  himself  free,  or  whether  he  in- 
tended, when  the  time  came,  to  ask  her  again  to  be 
his  wife.  When  he  had  come  back  to  Mountfield 
at  Christmas  he  had  been  in  all  respects  as  he  had 
been  up  to  six  months  before,  friendly  and  brotherly, 
and  no  more.  It  made  it  easier  for  her,  for  her 
pride  had  been  a  little  wounded.  If  he  had  held 
aloof,  but  shown  that,  although  he  had  given  her  her 
freedom,  he  hoped  she  had  not  accepted  it,  she  would 
have  felt  irked,  and  whatever  unformed  love  she  had 
for  Jim  would  quickly  have  disappeared.  But,  as 
it  was,  his  equable  friendship  kept  alive  the  affec- 
tion which  she  had  always  felt  for  him;  only  it 
seemed  to  make  the  remembrance  of  their  love  pas- 
sstges  a  little  absurd.  She  was  not  exactly  ashamed 
of  what  had  happened,  but  she  never  willingly  thought 
of  it,  and  after  a  year  or  so  it  became  as  much  a  part 


BYTHELAKE  123 

of  her  past  life  as  the  short  frocks  and  pinafores  of 
her  childhood.  She  had  been  mildly  chaffed  about 
Jim  on  occasions,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  in 
the  minds  both  of  her  family  and  of  Jim's  the  ex- 
pectation of  an  eventual  mamage  had  never  alto- 
gether subsided.  Nor,  strangely  enough,  had  it  al- 
together subsided  in  hers,  although  if  she  had  ever 
asked  herself  the  question  as  to  whether  she  was  in 
love  with  Jim  in  the  slightest  degree  she  w^ould  have 
answered  it  forcibly  in  the  negative.  But — there  it 
was,  as  it  is  with  every  young  girl — some  day  she 
would  be  married ;  and  it  might  happen  that  she  would 
be  married  to  Jim. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Jim  asked  her  when  they 
had  walked  the  length  of  the  lake  and  come  out  in 
front  of  the  Temple,  "  how  you  used  to  try  to  teach 
me  to  draw  here.'*  " 

Yes,  it  was  obviously  Jim's  intention  to  open  up  a 
buried  subject,  and  she  was  not  by  any  means  pre- 
pared for  that.  The  sketching  lessons  had  been  a 
shameless  subterfuge  for  obtaining  privacy,  for  Jim 
had  about  as  much  aptitude  for  the  arts  as  a 
dromedary,  and  his  libels  on  the  lake  and  the  rhodo- 
dendrons would  have  made  old  Merchant  Jack  and 
his  landscape  gardener  turn  in  their  graves. 

Cicely  laughed.  "  Have  you  brought  back  any 
sketches  from  your  travels  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No.  I've  got  lots  of  photographs,  though." 
Jim  was  always  literal. 

"  Angela  and  Beatrice  paint  beautifully,"  Cicely 


124     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

said.  "  We  are  going  to  make  sketches  at  Black- 
borough  this  afternoon.  Will  you  come  with  us, 
Jim.f^    We  are  all  going." 

"  Yes,  I'll  come,"  said  Jim.  "  Cicely,  are  you  glad 
to  see  me  home  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  I'm  glad.  We  have  all  missed 
you  awfully,  Jim." 

"  You  can't  think  how  bucked  up  I  am  to  think 
that  I  need  never  leave  Mountfield  again  as  long  as 
I  live.  That's  what's  so  jolly  about  having  a  place 
of  your  own.  It's  part  of  you.  You  feel  that,  don't 
you.  Cicely.?  " 

"  Well,  as  I  haven't  got  a  place  of  my  own,  Jim, 
I  don't  know  that  I  do." 

"  When  those  beastly  death  duties  are  paid  off," 
Jim  began,  but  Cicely  would  not  let  him  finish. 
"  Anyhow,"  she  said,  "  I  should  hate  to  think  I  was 
going  to  stay  in  one  place  all  my  life,  however  much 
I  liked  it.  Of  course,  it  is  natural  that  you  should 
feel  as  you  do  when  you  have  been  travelling  for  a 
year.  If  I  ever  have  the  chance  of  travelling  for  a 
year  perhaps  I  shall  feel  like  that  about  Kencote." 
She  laughed  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  blushing  a 
little.    "  Let  us  go  back  and  play  tennis,"  she  said. 

His  face  fell,  and  he  walked  by  her  side  without 
speaking.  Cicely  little  knew  how  keen  was  his  dis- 
appointment. This  was  the  hour  he  had  been  looking 
forward  to  every  day  for  the  last  year,  and  this  the 
place,  with  the  sun  glinting  through  the  young  green 
of  beech  and  ash  and  lighting  up  those  masses  and 


BY    THE    LAKE  125 

drifts  of  brilliant  colour  everywhere  about  them.  It 
was  true  that  he  had  meant  to  come  to  no  conclusions 
with  the  girl  he  loved  with  all  his  heart.  The  time 
for  that  would  not  be  for  another  year  at  least, 
according  to  the  decision  he  had  long  since  come  to. 
But  he  had  so  hungered  for  her  during  his  long  exile, 
for  such  it  had  seemed  to  him  in  spite  of  the  various 
enjoyments  and  interests  he  had  gained  from  it,  that 
the  thought  had  grown  with  him  that  he  would  take 
just  a  httle  of  the  sweetness  that  a  word  from  her, 
to  show  that  she  was  his  as  he  was  hers,  would  give 
him.  She  had  not  spoken  the  word,  and  Jim's  heart 
was  heavy  as  he  walked  back  to  the  garden  by  her 
side. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  QUESTION  OF  MARRIAGE 

"  Blackborough  Castle?"  said  the  Squire  at 
luncheon.  "  Well,  if  jou  like — but  you'll  take  your 
tea  in  the  company  of  Dick,  Tom  and  Harry,  and  I 
think  you  would  be  more  comfortable  at  home." 

"  I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  anybody  else  there 
to-day,"  said  Dick,  "  and  the  spirit  of  youth  cries 
aloud  for  tea  on  the  floor."  So  it  was  settled.  Mrs. 
Clinton  and  Mrs.  Birket  went  in  the  carriage,  Angela 
rode  with  Humphrey,  and  Dick  drove  the  rest  of  the 
party,  which  did  not  include  the  Squire,  in  the 
brake. 

"  You  look  like  bean-feasters,"  said  Humphrey,  as 
they  drove  past  him  and  Angela.  "  But  you  need 
not  behave  as  such,"  said  Miss  Bird  to  the  twins, 
who,  one  on  each  side  of  their  uncle,  were  inclined 
to  be  a  trifle  uproarious. 

They  had  the  old  keep  of  the  castle  pretty  well 
to  themselves,  spread  their  cloth  on  the  green  truf 
by  the  battlements,  where  centuries  ago  men-at-arms 
had  tramped  the  now  covered  stones,  and  made  merry 
in  true  picnic  style.  There  was  a  footman  to  clear 
away,  and  the  party  broke  up  into  little  groups,  and 
explored  the  ruins,  and  wandered  in  the  thick  woods 
which  surrounded  them. 

126 


THE    QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    127 

Jim  looked  a  little  wistfully  at  Cicely  as  she  went 
away  with  her  arm  in  that  of  Beatrice  Birket,  but 
made  no  attempt  to  join  her,  and  presently  allied 
himself  to  the  storming  party  which  Joan  was  col- 
lecting to  rescue  Miss  Bird,  confined  in  the  deepest 
dungeon. 

"  Now,  Trixie,  you  have  got  to  tell  me  all  about 
it,"  Cicely  said,  when  the  two  girls  were  out  of  hear- 
ing of  the  rest. 

*'  My  dear,"  said  Beatrice,  laughing,  "  I  told  you 
last  night  that  he  had  asked  me  and  I  had  said  yes, 
and  that  I  am  very  happy." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  But  that  was  before  Angela,  and 
she  said  we  were  to  have  no  raptures.  I  want  rap- 
tures, please." 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  you  won't  get  them.  I'm  too 
well  drilled.  You  know.  Cicely,  I  rather  envy  you 
being  brought  up  as  you  were.  You're  more  natural, 
somehow,  than  Angela  and  I." 

"  Well,  I  envy  you;  so  we're  quits.  But  never 
mind  about  that  now.  Trixie,  is  Angela  just  the 
least  bit  jealous.?" 

"  No,  not  a  bit,"  said  Beatrice  loyally.  "  But  you 
see  she's  a  year  older,  and  ever  so  much  cleverer,  and 
prettier  too." 

"  She's  none  of  those  things  except  a  year  older. 
But  she's  a  dear  all  the  same,  and  so  are  you.  I 
don't  wonder  at  anybody  falling  in  love  with  you. 
Are  you  very  much  in  love  too  ?  " 

"  Well,  Cicely,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  in  strict 


128     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

confidence  that  I  am.     But,  perhaps,  it's  in  a  way 
you  would  not  sympathise  with  particularly." 

"  Tell  me  in  what  way,  and  you'll  see." 
.  "  Of  course  George  isn't  especially  good-looking ; 
in  fact  he  isn't  good-looking  at  all,  except  for  his 
eyes.  I  used  to  think  I  should  never  love  anybody 
unless  he  was  as  handsome  as — as,  well,  Dick  is, 
for  instance — that  sort  of  man — you  know — smart 
and  well  set  up,  and " — with  a  laughs — "  rather 
ignorant." 

"  Dick  isn't  ignorant,"  said  Cicely  indignantly. 

"  My  dear,  compared  to  George  he  is  a  monu- 
ment of  ignorance,  a  pyramid  of  it ;  so  are  most  men. 
It  was  just  that;  George  is  so  clever,  and  he's  mak- 
ing such  use  of  his  brains  too.  He  is  one  of 
the  youngest  men  in  parliament,  and  is  in  ofiice  al- 
ready. It  was  looking  up  to  him  as  a  pillar  of 
wisdom,  and  then  finding  that  he  looked  to  me  of  all 
people,  to  help  him  on." 

"  I'm  sure  you  will  help  him  on.  I  heard  some 
one  say  in  London  that  many  politicians  owed  a 
great  deal  of  their  success  to  their  wives." 

"  I  don't  mean  quite  in  that  way.  I  don't  think 
George  is  ambitious,  though  I  am  for  him.  He 
wants  to  get  things  done.  Father  says  it  is  be- 
cause he  is  so  young.  He  tells  me  about  every- 
thing, and  it  makes  me  grateful — you  know,  I 
think  when  you  are  very  grateful,  that  is  being  in 
love." 

"  You  dear  tiling !  "  said  Cicely,  squeezing  her  arm. 


THE   QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    129 

"  Does  Uncle  Herbert  like  him  ?  They  are  not  on 
the  same  side  in  politics,  are  they?" 

"  No.  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter.  It  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least  to  me.  Of  course,  there  are 
things.  George  is  a  tremendous  churchman,  you 
know,  and  I  have  never  thought  much  about  religion 
— not  deeply,  I  mean.  But  it  is  a  real  thing  with 
him,  and  I'm  learning.  You  see,  Cicely,  we  are 
rather  a  different  engaged  couple  from  most,  although 
we  don't  appear  so  to  the  world  at  large.  Outside 
our  two  selves,  George  is  a  coming  man,  and  I  am 
a  lucky  girl  to  be  making  such  a  match." 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  told  me  about  it  all,"  Cicely 
said.  "  It  must  be  splendid  to  be  looking  forward 
to  helping  your  husband  in  all  the  good  things  he  is 
going  to  do." 

"  Oh,  it  is.  I  am  ever  so  happy.  And  George  is 
the  dearest  soul — so  kind  and  thoughtful,  for  all  his 
cleverness.     Cicely,  you  must  meet  him." 

"  I  should  love  to,"  said  Cicely  simply.  "  I  never 
meet  anybody  interesting  down  here."  Her  incipient 
sense  of  revolt  had  died  down  for  the  time;  she  was 
young  enough  to  live  in  the  present,  if  the  present 
was  agreeable  enough,  as  it  was  with  this  mild,  un- 
wonted, holiday  stir  about  her.  She  only  felt, 
vaguely,  a  little  sorry  for  herself. 

"  It  is  lovely,'^  said  Beatrice ;  "  but  I  own  I 
shouldn't  care  for  it  all  day  and  every  day.  It  is 
rather  jolly  to  feel  you're  in  the  middle  of  things." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  is,"  said  Cicely,  laughing.      "  / 


130     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

was  in  the  middle  of  things  in  London,  and  I  enjoj^ed 
it  immensely." 

Beatrice's  engagement  was  the  subject  of  another 
conversation  that  evening.  When  the  party  got  back 
from  the  picnic,  Cicely  set  out  for  the  dower-house. 
Nobody  had  been  near  the  old  aunts  that  day;  it 
was  seven  o'clock,  and  there  was  just  time  to  pay 
them  a  short  visit.  Mr.  Birket  was  in  the  hall  as 
she  passed  through,  and  she  asked  him  to  go  with 
her. 

"  I  should  like  to  pay  my  respects  to  those  two 
admirable  ladies,"  he  said.  "  They  make  me  feel 
that  I  am  nobody,  which  is  occasionally  good  for  the 
soul  of  man." 

"  Ah,"  said  Cicely,  as  they  went  across  the  garden 
together,  "  you  are  a  wicked  Radical,  you  see,  and 
you  want  to  disestablish  their  beloved  Church." 

"  Do  1?  "  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  How  truly  shocking 
of  me.  My  dear,  don't  believe  everything  you  hear. 
I  am  sure  that  my  chief  fault  is  that  I  don't  possess 
land.  Cicely,  how  much  land  must  you  possess  if 
you  really  want  to  hold  your  head  up?  Would  a 
hundred  acres  or  so  do  the  trick?  I  suppose  not. 
Two  hundred  acres,  now!  I  might  run  to  that  if 
the  land  was  cheap." 

"  Two  hundred  acres,  I  should  think,  uncle,"  said 
Cicely,  "  with  a  manor-house,  and,  say,  a  home  farm. 
And  if  3^ou  could  get  the  advowson  of  a  living,  it 
would  be  all  to  the  good." 

"Would   it?      Thank   you    for   telling   me.      But 


THE   QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    131 

then  I  should  have  to  ask  the  parson  to  dinner,  and 
we  might  not  get  on.  And  I  should  have  to  go  to 
church.  I  like  going  to  church  when  I'm  not  obliged 
to — that  is  if  they'll  preach  me  a  good  sermon.  I 
insist  upon  a  good  sermon.  But  if  I  had  to  go  to 
set  an  example — well,  I  shouldn't  go ;  and  then  I 
should  get  into  trouble." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  w^ould,  uncle.  You  can't  live 
your  own  life  entirely  in  the  country.  There  are 
responsibilities." 

"Ah,  you've  thought  of  that,  have  you.'^  You 
do  think  things  over?  " 

"  Yes.  I  do  think  things  over.  There's  nothing 
much  else  to  do." 

Mr.  Birket  cast  a  side  glance  at  her.  The  sun 
striking  through  the  trees  of  the  park  flushed  trans- 
lucently  the  smooth,  fair  flesh  of  her  cheek  and  her 
ungloved  hand.  In  her  white  frock,  moving  freely, 
with  the  springy  grace  of  a  young  animal,  she  at- 
tracted the  eye.  Her  head,  under  her  wide  hat- 
brim,  was  pensive,  but  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
smile.  "  If  you  could  bring  yourself  to  it,  you 
know,"  she  began,  and  broke  off.  "  I  mean,"  she 
began  again,  "  I  think  you  must  either  be  a  man, 
or — or  very  young,  or  not  young  at  all." 

Mr.  Birket  was  a  man  of  very  quick  perception. 
His  face  softened  a  little.  "  My  dear,"  he  said, 
"  when  you  are  very  young  things  are  happening 
every  day,  when  you  are  a  little  older  anything  may 
happen,    and   when   you   are   older    still   happenings 


132     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

don't  matter.     But  jou  haven't  got  to  the  third  stage 

yet." 

"  No,"  Cicely  said,  "  I  suppose  not.  Happenings 
do  matter  to  me;  and  there  aren't  enough  of  them." 

The  two  old  ladies  received  Mr.  Birket  courteously. 
He  was  accidentally  allied  to  the  Clintons,  and  in 
his  own  path  of  life  had  striven,  not  without  suc- 
cess, to  make  himself  worthy  of  the  alliance.  He 
came  to  see  them,  two  old  ladies  who  had  lived  all 
their  long  lives  in  a  small  country  village,  had  hardly 
ever  been  to  London,  and  never  out  of  England,  who 
had  been  taught  to  read  and  write  and  to  add  up 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence,  and  had  never  felt  the 
lack  of  a  wider  education.  He  came  with  his  great 
reputation,  his  membership  of  Parliament,  his  twenty 
thousand  a  year  of  income  earned  by  the  exercise 
of  his  brain,  and  a  judgeship  looming  in  the  near 
future,  and  as  far  as  they  were  concerned  he  came 
straight  out  of  the  little  house  on  the  Bathgate 
Road,  now  fitly  occupied  by  a  retired  chemist.  But 
far  be  it  from  them  to  show  a  brother  of  their 
nephew's  wife  that  he  was  not  w^elcome  among 
them. 

They  talked  of  the  weather,  of  Blackborough 
Castle,  of  Jim  Graham's  return,  and  of  Walter's 
coming  marriage  with  Muriel. 

"  Well,  that  will  be  the  first  wedding  in  the  new 
generation,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  But  there  will  be 
another  very  soon.  Have  you  heard  that  my  girl, 
Beatrice,  is  going  to  be  married  .'^  " 


THE   QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    133 

The  old  ladies  had  not  heard  this  piece  of  news 
and  expressed  their  interest.  Privately  they  thought 
it  a  little  odd  that  Mr.  Birket  should  talk  as  if 
there  were  any  connection  between  the  two  events, 
although,  of  course,  it  was  true  that  Walter  was  of 
the  new  Birket  generation  as  well  as  the  new  Clinton 
generation. 

"  She  is  rather  young,"  pursued  Mr.  Birket,  "  but 
George  Senhouse  is  a  steady  fellow  as  well  as  a  suc- 
cessful one.  It  is  George  Senhouse  she  is  going  to 
marry — you  have  heard  of  him  ?" 

"  Any  relation,  if  I  may  ask,  to  Sir  George  Sen- 
house  of  whom  we  read  in  the  House  of  Parlia- 
ment.? "  asked  Aunt  Ellen. 

"  Yes — George  Senhouse — that's  the  man.  Not  on 
my  side,  you  know.  Miss  Clinton,  but  I'm  sure  you 
won't  think  that  a  drawback." 

Indeed  it  was  not.  Mr.  Birket  was  a  Liberal, 
and  therefore  a  deadly  foe  to  the  true  religion  of  the 
Church  of  England  as  by  compromise  established, 
and  to  all  the  societies  for  raising  mankind  to  a  just 
appreciation  of  that  religion  which  the  Misses  Clin- 
ton supported.  And  Sir  George  Senhouse,  a  capable 
and  earnest  young  man,  with  an  historic  name,  had 
early  devoted  his  powers  to  the  defence  of  those 
things  in  the  outside  world  which  they  held  dear. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  surprising  piece  of  good  fortune 
for  Mr.  Birket — and  no  wonder  that  he  was  so  evi- 
dently pleased. 

"  I  hope  your  daughter  will  be  strengthened  to 


134     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

assist  him  in  all  the  good  work  he  does,"  said  Aunt 
Ellen. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  she  will,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  The 
engagement  is  not  announced  yet ;  but  I  tell  you^ 
Miss  Clinton — and  Miss  Laura." 

"  Oh,  we  should  not  say  a  word  before  the  proper 
time,"  said  Aunt  Laura. 

When  Cicely  and  Mr.  Birket  had  gone,  Aunt  Ellen 
said,  "  You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  sister,  that  it  is 
owing  to  the  Clinton  connection.  We  have  lived  a 
retired  life,  but  I  know  very  well  how  these  things 
tell." 

As  Cicely  dressed  for  dinner — it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  been  alone  during  the  day — she  thought 
about  Jim,  and  what  he  had  said  to  her,  or  tried  to 
say  to  her,  early  in  the  morning.  He  had  disturbed 
her  mind  and  given  her  something  that  she  had  to 
think  about.  She  had  told  Mr.  Birket  that  she 
thought  things  over,  and  it  was  true ;  she  had  cour- 
age in  that  way.  With  but  little  in  her  education 
or  scope  of  life  to  feed  it,  her  brain  was  active  and 
inquiring.  It  worked  on  all  matters  that  came  within 
her  ken,  and  she  never  shirked  a  question.  She 
was  affectionate,  loyal,  and  naturally  light-hearted, 
but  she  was  critical  too,  of  herself  no  less  than  of 
others.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  her,  if  she 
had  had  less  character,  to  put  away  from  her,  as  she 
had  done  for  the  last  five  years,  the  consideration 
of  her  relationship  to  Jim,  to  have  ignored  his  ap- 
proach   to    her,    since    she    had    stopped    him    from 


THE   QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    135 

coming  closer,  and  to  have  deferred  searching  her 
own  mind  until  he  should  have  approached  her  again 
and  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  no  longer  have 
avoided  it.  But  she  had  locked  up  the  remembrance 
of  the  happenings  of  five  years  before  in  a  cupboard 
of  her  brain,  and  locked  the  key  on  it.  If  she  had 
thought  of  it  at  all,  she  would  have  had  to  think  of 
herself  as  having  made  a  present  to  Jim  which  he 
had  returned  to  her.  And  because  she  could  not 
altogether  escape  from  the  memory  of  it,  she  had 
come  to  look  upon  herself  as  a  rather  foolish  and 
very  immature  young  person  in  those  days,  who  had 
not  in  the  least  known  what  she  was  about  when  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  made  love  to. 

With  regard  to  Jim  her  thoughts  had  been  even 
less  definite.  His  attitude  to  her  had  been  so  en- 
tirely brotherly  that  she  had  never  felt  the  necessity 
of  asking  herself  whether  he  was  still  keeping  his 
expressed  love  for  her  alive,  although  he  would  not 
show  it,  or  whether  he,  too,  thought  of  their  love- 
making  as  a  piece  of  rather  childish  folly,  and  had 
put  it  completely  behind  him.  Beyond  the  first  slight 
awkwardness  of  meeting  him  when  he  came  back  from 
Oxford  after  his  letter  to  her,  she  had  felt  none  in  his 
presence,  and  until  this  very  morning  her  attitude 
towards  him  had  been  frank  and  her  feelings  affec- 
tionate. He  had  made  that  possible  by  showing  the 
same  attitude  and  apparently  the  same  feelings. 

But  what  she  now  had  to  consider  was  whether 
he  had  actually  been  so  frank  towards  her  as  she  to 


136     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

him;  whether  he  had  not  been  keeping  something 
back,  and,  in  effect,  playing  a  part.  If  it  were  so, 
their  relationship  was  not  as  she  had  thought  it,  and 
would  have  to  be  adjusted. 

She  turned  her  mind  to  this  point  first.  It  would 
really  be  rather  surprising  if  Jim  had  been  in  love 
with  her  all  this  time  and  she  had  not  known  it. 
She  thought  she  must  have  known  if  it  were  so,  and 
she  rejected  the  idea.  What  she  could  not  get  away 
from — it  hardly  needed  stating  in  her  mind — was 
that  he  had  tentatively  made  love  to  her  that  morn- 
ing. Or  rather — and  here  she  rather  congratulated 
herself  on  making  the  distinction,  as  a  process  of 
pure  thought — he  had  seemed  to  show  her  that  mar- 
riage was  in  his  mind,  perhaps  as  a  thing  already 
settled  between  them,  although  she,  for  her  part,  had 
long  since  given  up  thinking  of  it  as  a  matter  to  be 
considered,  however  loosely,  settled.  Of  course  she 
knew  he  was  fond  of  her,  as  she  was  of  him.  If  he 
was  not  in  love  with  her,  as  once  he  had  been,  he 
might  still  want  to  marry  her,  as  the  nicest  person 
he  could  find,  and  the  requisite  impulsion  might  come 
from  his  return  after  a  long  absence.  She  would  be 
included  in  his  heightened  appreciation  of  all  his 
home  surroundings.  These  considerations  passed 
through  her  mind,  in  no  logical  sequence  of  thought, 
but  at  various  points  of  her  self-questioning,  and 
when  she  was  also  thinking  further  of  her  own  part 
in  what  might  follow,  trying  to  discover  what  she 
wanted  and  to  decide  what  she  should  do.     The  fact 


THE   QUESTION   OF   MARRIAGE    137 

that  he  had  opened  and  would  probably  open  again 
the  subject  of  their  marriage  was  all  that  really  mat- 
tered, and  she  knew  that  without  thinking. 

She  knew,  too,  without  thinking,  that  she  did  not 
want  to  engage  herself  again  to  marry  Jim,  at  any 
rate  not  yet;  and,  in  fact,  she  would  not  do  so. 
What  her  honesty  of  mind  impelled  her  to  was  the 
discovery  of  the  root  from  which  this  femininely 
instinctive  decision  had  flowered.  What  were  her 
reasons  for  not  wanting  to  marry  Jim  now,  or  soon ; 
and  would  they  take  from  her,  when  examined,  that 
always  present  but  always  unstated  possibility  of 
some  day  finding  herself  living  at  Mountfield  as  his 
wife.?  She  a  little  dreaded  the  conclusion,  which 
may  have  shown  that  she  had  already  made  up  her 
mind;  but  it  was  here  that  an  answer  had  to  be 
found,  and  she  faced  it  bravely. 

She  was  not  ready  to  marry  Jim  now,  or  soon, 
because  in  the  first  place  she  did  not  love  him — not 
in  that  way — and  in  the  second  place  because  she 
did  not  love,  in  any  way,  what  he  stood  for. 

When  she  said  to  herself  that  she  did  not  love 
Jim  her  mind  recoiled  a  little.  He  was  such  a  good 
sort,  so  kind,  so  rehable.  It  was  just  as  if  she  had 
said  that  she  did  not  love  her  brothers.  It  was 
ungracious,  and  ungrateful.  She  did  love  him.  Dear 
old  Jim !  And  she  would  be  sorry  to  cause  him  pain. 
But,  if  she  did  not  want  him  to  make  love  to  her — 
and  certainly  she  didn't — she  couldn't  possibly  love 
him  as  a  girl  ought  to  love  her  prospective  husband 


1S8     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

— as  Beatrice,  for  instance,  loved  her  young  par- 
liamentarian. That  seemed  settled.  And  because 
she  did  think  things  over,  and  was  no  longer  very 
young  indeed,  she  saw  that  the  change  of  circum- 
stances in  a  girl's  life  when  she  was  going  to  be 
married  counted  for  something,  something  of  the 
pleasure,  something  of  the  excitement.  It  was  so 
with  Beatrice,  and  with  Muriel.  They  loved  the  men 
they  were  going  to  marry,  but  they  also  got  a  great 
deal  of  satisfaction  out  of  the  change  in  their  sur- 
roundings, quite  apart  from  that.  What  sort  of 
change  would  she  have  as  Jim's  wife.^^  She  would 
step  straight  out  of  one  large  house  into  another, 
and  she  would  no  more  be  the  mistress  of  Mount- 
field  than  she  had  been  of  Kencote.  So  she  told 
herself.  For  the  mistresses  of  houses  like  Kencote 
and  Mountfield  were  really  a  sort  of  superior  house- 
keeper, allowed  to  live  with  the  family,  but  placed 
where  they  were  with  the  sole  object  of  serving  their 
lords  and  masters,  with  far  less  independence  than  a 
paid  housekeeper,  who  could  take  her  money  and  go  if 
she  were  dissatisfied  with  her  position. 

What  a  prospect !  To  live  out  the  rest  of  her 
life  in  the  subjection  against  which  she  had  already 
begun  to  rebel,  in  exactly  similar  surroundings  and 
in  exactly  the  same  atmosphere!  If  she  married 
Jim  she  would  not  even  have  the  pleasure  of  furnish- 
ing her  own  house.  It  would  he  Jim's  house,  and 
the  furniture  and  all  the  appurtenances  of  it  were 
so  perfect  in  Jim's   eyes   that   she  knew  he  would 


THE    QUESTION    OF    MARRIAGE    139 

never  hear  of  her  altering  a  thing.  She  would  not 
be  able  to  rearrange  her  drawing-room  without  his 
permission.  That  was  what  it  meant  to  marry  a 
country  gentleman  of  Jim's  sort,  who  disliked  "  gad- 
ding about,"  and  would  expect  his  wife  to  go  through 
the  same  dull  round,  day  after  day,  all  her  life  long, 
while  he  amused  himself  in  the  way  that  best  suited 
him. 

When  she  had  reached  this  point,  and  the  end  of 
her  toilet  together.  Cicely  suddenly  determined  that 
she  would  never  marry  Jim,  and  if  he  pressed  her 
she  would  tell  him  so.  She  didn't  want  to  marry 
anybody.  If  only  she  could  get  away  from  Kencote 
and  be  a  hospital  nurse,  or  something  of  the  sort, 
that  was  all  she  wanted.  With  this  rather  un- 
satisfactory conclusion  she  cleared  her  mind,  ran 
downstairs,  and  found  Jim  himself  alone  in  the 
drawing-room. 


CHAPTER    X 

TOWN  versus  country 

"  Hullo  !  "  said  Jim.     "  You're  down  early." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  said  Cicely,  and 
was  annoyed  at  herself,  and  blushed  in  consequence. 

But  whatever  conclusion  Jim  may  have  drawn 
from  her  hurried,  rather  eager  entrance,  her  denial, 
and  her  blush,  he  only  said,  "  Mother  and  Muriel  are 
upstairs." 

"  I  wonder  why  Muriel  didn't  come  to  my  room," 
said  Cicely.     "  I  think  I'll  go  and  find  her." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jim,  and  Cicely  went  out  of  the 
room  again. 

Jim  took  up  a  book  from  a  table,  turned  over  a 
few  leaves,  and  then  threw  it  down  and  went  to  the 
window,  where  he  stood  looking  out,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

By  and  by  Mr.  Birket  came  in,  and  joined  him. 
"  Shame  to  be  indoors  on  an  evening  like  this,"  he 
said.  "  I  should  like  to  dine  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
summer." 

"What  about  the  servants.?"  asked  Jim. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  Is  it  true  you  are  a 
Free  Trader,  Graham?" 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Jim,  with  a  shade  of  defiance. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Birket. 

140 


TOWN  VERSUS  COUNTRY   141 

Jim  smiled.  "  Well,  you've  got  to  be  in  your 
party,"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  isn't  a  question  of  party.  It's 
a  question  of  common-sense." 

"  That's  just  what  I  think.  I've  looked  into  it 
with  as  much  intelligence  as  I'm  capable  of — they 
say  about  here  that  isn't  much — and  I  can't  see 
why  you  shouldn't  be  a  Tory  as  good  as  any  of  'em 
and  still  stick  to  Free  Trade." 

"  Nor  can  I,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  But  they  won't 
let  you.  You  had  better  join  us,  Graham.  Any- 
body with  any  dawning  of  sense  must  be  very  un- 
comfortable where  you  are." 

"  I  should  be  a  jolly  sight  more  uncomfortable 
with  you,"  said  Jim.  "  And  I've  got  keen  on  the 
Empire  since  I've  been  travelling." 

"  Oh,  if  you've  seen  it,"  said  Mr.  Birket,  somewhat 
cryptically,  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Clinton  and  Mrs.  Birket  came  in  together. 

Mrs.  Birket  was  a  tall,  good-looking  woman,  who 
held  herself  upright,  was  well  dressed  and  well  in- 
formed. She  had  a  good  manner,  and  in  mixed 
company  never  allowed  a  drop  in  the  conversation. 
But  as  she  talked  well  this  was  not  so  tiresome  as 
it  might  have  been.  She  was  quoted  amongst  her 
circle,  which  was  a  wide  one,  as  an  excellent  hostess, 
and  the  tribute  was  deserved,  because,  in  addition 
to  her  conversational  aptitude,  she  had  the  art  of 
looking  after  her  guests  without  apparent  effort. 
She  had  been   strict  with  her  daughters,  but   they 


142     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

were  now  her  companions,  and  devoted  to  her.  Mrs. 
Clinton  talked  to  her,  perhaps  more  than  to  any  other 
woman  she  knew,  and  the  two  were  friends,  al- 
though the  circumstances  of  their  lives  were  wide 
apart. 

The  two  ladies  were  followed  by  the  four  girls, 
who  came  in  chattering,  and  by  Mrs.  Graham,  who, 
even  in  evening  clothes,  with  a  necklace  of  diamonds, 
looked  as  if  she  liked  dogs.  Then  came  Humphrey, 
extraordinarily  well  dressed,  his  dark  hair  very  sleek ; 
and  Dick,  very  well  dressed  too,  but  with  less  of  a 
town  air;  and  then  the  Squire,  just  upon  the  stroke 
of  eight,  obviously  looking  forward  to  his  dinner. 

"  Nina,  what  on  earth  can  have  become  of  Tom 
and  Grace.?"  he  asked  when  he  had  greeted  Mrs. 
Graham  and  Muriel.  "  No  sign  of  'em  anywhere. 
We  can't  wait,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Clinton  glanced  at  the  ormolu  clock,  repre- 
senting Time  with  a  scythe  and  hour-glass,  on  the 
mantelpiece,  but  said  nothing.  As  it  began  to  chime 
the  door  opened  and  the  Rector  and  Mrs.  Beach  were 
announced. 

"  Grace !  Grace !  "  said  the  Squire,  holding  up  a 
warning  finger,  but  smiling  affably.  "  I've  never 
known  you  run  it  so  fine  before." 

"My  dear  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Beach,  with  her 
sweet  smile,  "  Tom  broke  a  collar  stud.  It  is  one 
of  those  little  accidents  that  nobody  can  foresee 
and  nobody  can  guard  against." 

"  Except  by  laying  in  a  stock,"  said  Mrs.  Graham. 


TOWN   VERSUS    COUNTRY       143 

"  Well,  my  dear  Grace,  you  were  just  not  late," 
said  the  Squire,  "  I  will  forgive  you." 

So  they  all  went  in  to  dinner  amicably,  and  a  very 
good   dinner  it  was,   although   there   was   an   entire 
absence   of  what  the   Squire   called  French   fal-lals. 
English    versus    French    cooking    was    a    favourite 
dinner-table   topic   of  his,   and  he  expatiated  on  it 
this  evening.     "  It  stands  to  reason,"  he  said,  "  that 
natural  food  well  cooked — of  course  it  must  be  well 
cooked,  before  an  open  range,  and  so  on — is  better 
than   made-up   stuff.      Now  what  have  we   got  this 
evening?  "     He  put  on  his  gold-rimmed  glasses  and 
took  up  a  menu-card.    A  shade  of  annoyance  passed 
over  his  face  when  he  discovered  that  it  was  written 
in  French.     "Who  wrote  this  rubbish?"  he  asked, 
looking  over  his  glasses  at  Mrs.  Clinton. 
"  I  did,  father,"  said  Cicely,  blushing. 
"  Good  for  you,  Siskin !  "  broke  in  Dick.     "  Very 
well  done.     It  gives  the  entertainment  an  air." 
"  I  helped  with  the  accents,"  said  Angela. 
"  Well,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  don't  like  it.     As  far 
as  I  can  make  out  it's  a  purely  English  dinner,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  the  soup,  and  it  ought  to  be  described 
in  English.     What's  the  good  of  calling  roast  lamb 
'  agneau  roti '  ?  "     He  pronounced  it  "  rotty ,"  with 
an  inflection  of  scorn.     "  There's  no  sense  in  it.     But 
as  I  was  saying — where  are  you  going  to  find  bet- 
ter food  than  salmon  and  roast  lamb,  new  potatoes, 
asparagus,     peas — of    course     they're     forced,    but 
they're  English — and  so  on?"     He  threw  down  the 


144.     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

card  and  took  off  his  glasses.  "  Everything  grown 
on  the  place  except  the  salmon,  which  old  Humphrey 
Meadshire  sent  me." 

"You've  left  out  the  *  Peche  a  la  Melba,"  said 
Mrs.  Beach.  "  It  is  the  crowning  point  of  the  whole 
dinner.  But  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Edward,  you 
couldn't  have  a  better  one  anywhere." 

"  Rather  on  the  heavy  side,"  commented  Hum- 
phrey. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  The  fruits  of  the 
earth  in  due  season,  or  if  possible,  a  little  before  it ; 
that's  the  best  dinner  any  man  can  have." 

"  Every  country  has  its  own  cooking,"  said  Mrs. 
Birket.  "  I  really  think  the  English  is  the  best  if 
it  is  well  done." 

"  Which  it  very  seldom  is,"  said  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  Of  course  this  is  the  very  best  time  of  all  the  year 
for  it,"  said  the  Rector.  "  Did  you  bring  back  any 
new  curry  recipes  from  India,  Jim  ?  " 

Jim  replied  that  he  had  not,  and  the  Squire  said, 
"  By  the  bye,  Jim,  I  see  that  fellow  Mackenzie  came 
home  in  the  Punjauh.  The  papers  are  full  of  him 
this  evening.     Did  you  happen  to  meet  him?  " 

Jim  said  that  he  had  shared  the  same  cabin,  and 
that  Mackenzie  had  promised  to  spend  a  week-end 
at  Mountfield  some  time  or  other. 

"  We  are  going  to  make  a  lion  of  him  in  London," 
said  Humphrey.  "  We  haven't  had  an  explorer  for 
a  long  time.  I  believe  he's  shaggy  enough  to  be  a 
great  success." 


TOWN  VERSUS  COUNTRY   145 

"  You  must  bring  him  over  to  dine,  Jim,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  It's  interesting  to  hear  about  these  fellows 
who  trot  all  over  the  world.  But  heavens,  what  a 
life!" 

"A  very  good  life,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Birket. 
"  Not  much  chance  to  get  moss-grown." 

"  Now,  I'm  sure  that  is  a  dig  at  us  people  who  live 
in  the  country,"  said  Mrs.  Beach.  "  Because  you 
don't  get  moss-grown,  Mr.  Birket." 

"  He  would  if  he  lived  in  the  country,"  said  Mrs. 
Birket.  "  He  would  lie  on  his  back  all  day  long 
and  do  nothing  at  all.  He  has  an  unequalled  power 
of  doing  nothing." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  I'm  a  very  hard 
worker.  Cicely  caught  me  at  it  at  six  o'clock  this 
morning,  didn't  you,  my  dear.f*  " 

"  You've  no  responsibilities,  Herbert,"  the  Squire 
broke  in.  "  If  you  owned  land  you  wouldn't  want 
to  lie  on  your  back." 

"  He  is  trying  to  make  the  land  lie  on  our 
backs,"    said    Dick.      "  We    shan't    have    any    left 


soon." 


"  All  you  Radicals,"  began  the  Squire ;  but  Mrs. 
Beach  had  something  to  say :  "  Mr.  Birket,  you 
despise  us  country  folk  at  the  bottom  of  your  heart. 
I'm  sure  you  do." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  I  think  you  live 
a  peaceful  and  idyllic  existence,  and  are  much  to  be 
envied." 

"  Peaceful !  "  the  Squire  snorted.     "  That's  all  you 


146     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

Radicals  know  about  it.  I  assure  you  we  work  as 
hard  as  anybody,  and  get  less  return  for  it.  I  wish 
you'd  tell  your  precious  leaders  so,  Herbert." 

"  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Birket. 

"  What  with  one  thing  and  another,"  proceeded 
the  Squire,  "  the  days  are  gone  as  soon  as  they  are 
begun." 

"  But  when  they  are  finished  something  has  always 
been  done,"  said  Mrs.  Beach.  "  That  is  the  difference 
between  a  town  life  and  a  country  life.  In  London 
you  are  immensely  busy  and  tire  yourself  to  death, 
but  you've  nothing  to  show  for  it." 

"  Your  brains  are  sharpened  up  a  bit,"  said 
Humphrey. 

"  If  you  have  any,"  suggested  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  Mother,  don't  be  rude,"  said  Muriel. 

"  The  remark  had  no  personal  bearing,"  said 
Humphrey,  with  a  grin. 

"  I  didn't  say  so,"  retorted  Mrs.   Graham. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  matter  of  temperament,"  said  Mrs. 
Birket.  "  Everybody  who  lives  in  London  likes  the 
country,  and  everybody  who  lives  in  the  country 
likes  London — for  a  change.  But  if  you  had  to  live 
in  one  or  the  other  all  the  year  round " 

"  I  would  choose  the  country,"  said  Mrs.  Beach, 
"  and  I'm  sure  you  would,  Edward." 

"  Of  course  I  would,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  do  live 
in  the  country  all  the  year  round.  I've  had  enough 
of  London  to  last  me  all  my  life." 

"  Two  for  the  country,"  said  Dick.     "  Now  we'll 


TOWN    VERSUS    COUNTRY       147 

go  round  the  table.  Mother,  where  do  your  tastes 
lie?" 

Mrs.  Clinton  did  not  reply  for  a  moment;  then 
she  said,  "  I  don't  think  I  should  mind  which  it  was 
if  I  had  my  family  round  me." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Nina,"  said  the  Squire,  "  that's 
no  answer.  Surely  you  don't  want  to  become  a  town 
madam." 

"  You  mustn't  bring  pressure,  Edward,"  said  Mrs. 
Beach.     "  We  shall  have  quite  enough  on  our  side." 

"  Mother  neutral,"  said  Dick.     "  Jim.?  " 

"  Oh,  the  country,"  said  Jim. 

"  Three  for  the  country.     Angela .?  " 

"  London." 

"  You  must  give  a  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Beach. 

Angela  laughed.  "  I  like  music,  and  plays,"  she 
said,  "  and  hearing  people  talk." 

"  Well,  surely  you  can  hear  people  talk  in  the 
country,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  And  such  talk !  "  added  Mrs.  Graham,  at  which 
everybody  laughed  except  the  Squire,  who  saw  no 
humour  in  the  remark. 

"  Three  to  one,"  said  Dick.  "  Aunt  Grace,  you've 
had  your  turn.  Now  it's  mine.  I  don't  want  to 
bury  myself  yet  awhile,  but  when  the  time  comes  I 
expect  I  shall  shy  at  London  as  the  governor  does. 
I'm  country." 

"Why.?"  asked  Angela. 

"  Oh,  because  there's  more  to  do.  Now  then, 
Beatrice.     You're  London,  I  suppose." 


148     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  Yes,"  said  Beatrice.  "  Because  there's  more  to 
do." 

"  Good  for  you !  That's  four  to  two.  Mrs. 
Graham !  " 

"  Can  you  ask?  "  said  that  lady.  "  And  I  won't 
give  any  reasons.  I  Hke  the  country  best  because 
I  like  it  best." 

"  Father  is  country.     Five  to  two." 

"  And  my  reason,"  said  the  Squire,  "  is  that  every 
man  who  doesn't  like  the  country  best,  when 
he  can  get  it,  isn't  a  man  at  all.  He's  a  popin- 
jay." 

"  Well,  at  the  risk  of  being  called  the  feminine  for 
popinjay,"  said  Mrs.  Birket,  with  a  smile,  "  I  must 
choose  London." 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  include  the  women,  my  dear 
Emmeline,"  said  the  Squire.  "  And  I  don't  include 
men  like  Herbert  either,  who've  got  their  work  to 
do.  I'm  thinking  of  the  fellows  who  peacock  about 
on  pavements  when  they  might  be  doing  'emselves 
good  hunting,  or  some  such  pursuit.  It's  country 
sport  that's  good  for  a  man,  keeps  him  strong  and 
healthy;  and  he  sees  things  in  the  proper  light  too. 
England  was  a  better  country  than  it  is  now  when 
the  House  of  Commons  was  chiefly  made  up  of  coun- 
try gentlemen.  You  didn't  hear  anything  about  this 
preposterous  socialism  then.  I  tell  you,  the  country 
gentlemen  are  the  backbone  of  England,  and  your 
party  will  find  it  out  when  you've  turned  them  out 
of  the  country." 


TOWN    VERSUS    COUNTRY       149 

"  Oh,  but  we  shan't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Birket. 
"  That  would  be  too  dreadful." 

"  No  politics,"  said  Dick.  "  We're  five  to  three. 
Tom,  you're  a  country  man,  I'm  sure." 

But  the  Rector  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  was. 
He  sometimes  thought  that  people  were  more  inter- 
esting than  Nature.  On  the  whole,  he  thought  he 
would  choose  the  town. 

"  Then  I  change  round,"  said  Mrs.  Beach. 
"  Where  thou  goest,  Tom,  I  will  go.  Dick,  I'm 
town." 

"  Then  that  changes  the  game.  Town's  one  up. 
Muriel,  be  careful." 

"  Certainly  not  country,"  said  Muriel.  "  I've  had 
enough  of  it.  I  think  the  best  place  to  live  in  is  a 
suburb." 

"Melbury  Park!"  laughed  the  Squire.  "Ha! 
ha!" 

"  That's  town,"  said  Dick.  "  Four  to  six.  We 
yokels  are  getting  worsted." 

"  I'll  come  to  your  rescue,"  said  Humphrey.  "  I 
don't  want  to  be  cut  off  with  a  shilling.  Give  me 
a  big  country  house  and  a  season  ticket,  and  I'm 
with  you." 

"  Five  to  six  then.  Now,  Siskin,  make  it  all 
square." 

"  No,"  said  Cicely.     "  I  hate  the  country." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire. 

"  It's  so  dreadfully  dull,"  said  Cicely.  "  There's 
nothing  in  the  world  to  do." 


150     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  But  this  is  a  revolt !  "  said  Dick. 

"  Nothing  to  do !  "  echoed  the  Squire,  in  a  voice 
of  impatient  censure.  "  There's  everything  to  do. 
Don't  talk  nonsense,  Cicely.  You  have  got  to  live 
in  the  country  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  so  you 
had  better  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Very  sound  advice,"  said  Mr.  Birket.  "  I  follow 
it  myself.  It  may  surprise  the  company,  but  I'm 
for  the  country.  Cows  enrapture  me,  and  as  for  the 
buttercups,  there's  no  flower  like  'em." 

"  Town  has  it,"  said  Dick.  "  Seven  to  six — a  very 
close  match." 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birket  were  alone  together 
that  night,  Mr.  Birket  said,  "  My  dear,  I  think 
Edward  Clinton  gets  more  intolerable  every  time  I 
see  him.  I  hope  I  have  succeeded  in  disguising  that 
opinion." 

"  Perfectly,  Herbert,"  said  his  wife.  "  And  you 
must  please  continue  to  do  so  for  Nina's  sake." 

Mr.  Birket  sighed.  "  Poor  dear  Nina !  "  he  said. 
"  She  was  so  bright  as  a  girl.  If  she  hadn't  married 
that  dunderhead  she'd  have  been  a  happy  woman. 
I  bet  she  isn't  now.  He  has  crushed  every  bit  of 
initiative  out  of  her.  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  my 
dear,  he'll  crush  it  out  of  Cicely  if  she  doesn't  get 
away  from  these  deadly  surroundings.  Heavens, 
what  a  life  for  a  clever  girl !  " 

"Do  you  think  Cicely  clever?" 

"  She  doesn't  know  anything,  because  they  have 


TOWN   VERSUS   COUNTRY      151 

never  let  her  learn  anything.  But  she  thinks  for 
herself,  and  she's  beginning  to  kick  at  it  all.  If 
she'd  had  the  chances  our  girls  have  had,  she'd  have 
made  use  of  them.  Can't  we  give  her  a  chance, 
Emmeline.'^  She's  a  particularly  nice  girl.  Have 
her  up  to  London  for  a  month  or  two.  The  girls  are 
fond  of  her — and  you're  fond  of  her  too,  aren't 
you.?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  very  fond  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Birket. 

"Well— then,  why  not.?" 

"  Do  you  think  Edward  would  let  her  come.?  " 

"  My  private  opinion  of  Edward  would  probably 
surprise  him,  if  he  could  hear  it,  but  I  don't  think 
even  he  would  go  so  far  as  to  deny  his  children  a 
pleasure  so  long  as  it  didn't  put  him  out  personally." 

"  Well,  I'll  ask,  if  you  like.  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  have  her.  But  some  one  might  fall  in  love  with 
her,  you  know,  Herbert.  She's  very  pretty,  and 
there's  always  the  chance." 

"And  why  on  earth  not.?  He  doesn't  want  to 
keep  her  an  old  maid,  does  he.?  " 

"  He  wants  her  to  marry  Jim  Graham." 

"  I  thought  that  was  all  over  years  ago." 

"  As  far  as  she  is  concerned,  perhaps.  I'm  sure 
Edward  still  looks  upon  it  as  going  to  happen  some 
day." 

"  I  don't  believe  she'll  marry  Graham,  even  if  he 
wants  her.  He's  just  such  another  as  Edward,  with 
a  trifle  more  sense." 

"  No,  Herbert,  he  is  quite  different.     I  like  him. 


152     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Cicely  to  marry 
him." 

"  She  ought  to  have  the  chance  of  seeing  other 
fellows.  Then,  if  she  likes  to  embark  afresh  on  a 
vegetable  existence,  it  will  be  her  own  choice.  Of 
course,  you  needn't  vegetate,  living  in  the  country, 
but  the  wife  of  Jim  Graham  probably  would.  Give 
her  her  chance,  anyway." 

But  this  particular  chance  was  denied  to  Cicely. 
The  Squire  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  "  My  dear  Em- 
meline,"  he  said,  "  it  is  very  kind  of  you — very  kind 
of  you  indeed.  But  she'd  only  get  unsettled.  She's 
got  maggots  in  her  head  already.  I  hope  some  day 
to  see  her  married  to  a  country  gentleman,  like  her 
mother  before  her.  Though  I  say  it,  no  women  could 
be  better  off.  Until  the  time  comes,  it's  best  for 
Cicely  to  stay  at  home." 

"  Idiot !  "  said  Mr.  Birket,  when  the  decision  was 
conveyed  to  him.  "  I  was  mistaken  in  him.  I  think 
now  he  would  be  capable  of  any  infamy.  Don't  tell 
Cicely,  Emmeline." 

But  the  Squire  told  her,  and  rebuked  her  because 
the  invitation  had  been  offered.  "  What  you  have 
to  do,"  he  said,  "  is  to  make  yourself  happy  at  home. 
Heaven  knows  there's  enough  to  make  you  so.  You 
have  everything  that  a  girl  can  want.  For  goodness' 
sake  be  contented  with  it,  and  don't  always  want  to 
be  gadding  about." 

Cicely  felt  too  sore  to  answer  him,  and  retired  as 
soon  as  his  homily  was  over.     In  the  afternoon — it 


TOWN    VERSUS    COUNTRY       153 

was  on  Sunday — she  went  for  a  walk  with  her  uncle. 
He  did  not  express  himself  to  her  as  he  had  done 
to  Mrs.  Birket,  but  gave  her  the  impression  that  he 
thought  her  father's  refusal  unfortunate,  but  not 
unreasonable,  smiling  inwardly  to  himself  as  he 
did  so. 

"  I  should  have  loved  to  come,  you  know,  Uncle 
Herbert,"  she  said. 

"  And  we  should  have  loved  to  have  you,  my 
dear,"  he  said.  "  But,  after  all,  Kencote  is  a  very 
jolly  place,  and  it's  your  own  fault  if  you're  bored 
in  it.  Nobody  ought  to  be  bored  anywhere.  I 
never  am." 

"  Well  then,  please  tell  me  what  to  do  with 
myself." 

"  What  do  you  do,  as  it  is?  " 

"  I  read  a  Httle,  and  try  to  paint,  and " 

"  Then  read  more,  and  try  to  paint  better.  Effort, 
my  dear, — that's  the  secret  of  life.  Give  yourself 
some  trouble." 

He  gave  her  more  advice  as  they  walked  and 
talked  together,  and  she  listened  to  him  submissively, 
and  became  interested  in  what  he  said  to  her. 

"  I  should  like  to  make  myself  useful  in  some 
way,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  spend  all  my  life 
amusing  myself  or  even  improving  myself." 

"  Oh,  improving  yourself !  That's  not  quite  the 
way  to  put  it.  Expressing  yourself — that's  what 
you  want  to  do — what  everybody  ought  to  do.  And 
look  here,  my  dear,  when  you  say  you  want  to  make 


154     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

yourself  useful — I  suppose  you  mean  hospital  nursing 
or  something  of  that  sort,  eh?  " 

Cicely  laughed.  "  I  have  thought  of  that,"  she 
said. 

"  Well  then,  don't  think  of  it  any  more.  It's 
not  the  way — at  least  not  for  you.  You  make  your- 
self useful  when  you  make  yourself  loved.  That's 
a  woman's  sphere,  and  I  don't  care  if  all  the  suf- 
fragettes in  the  country  hear  me  say  it.  A  woman 
ought  to  be  loved  in  one  way  or  another  by  every- 
body around  her;  and  if  she  is,  then  she's  doing 
more  in  the  world  than  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a 
hundred.  Men  want  opportunities.  Every  woman 
has  them  already.  Somebody  is  dependent  on  her, 
and  the  more  the  better  for  her — and  the  world. 
What  would  your  old  aunts  do  without  you,  or  your 
mother,  or  indeed  anybody  in  the  place  .'^  They 
would  all  miss  you,  every  one.  Don't  run  away  with 
the  idea  you're  not  wanted.  Of  course  you're  wanted. 
We  want  you,  only  we  can't  have  you  because  they 
want  you  here." 

"  You  give  me  a  better  conceit  of  myself,"  she  said 
gratefully. 

"  Keep  it,  my  dear,  keep  it,"  said  Mr.  Birket. 
"  The  better  conceit  we  have  of  ourselves  the  more 
we  accomplish.  Now  I  think  we'd  better  be  turn- 
ing back." 


CHAPTER    XI 

A    WEDDING 

The  London  newspapers  devoted  small  space,  if  any, 
to  the  wedding  of  Walter  Clinton,  Esq.,  M.D.,  third 
son  of  Edward  Clinton,  Esq.,  of  Kencote,  Meadshire, 
and  Muriel,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Alexander 
Graham,  Esq.,  and  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Graham  of 
Mountfield,  Meadshire,  but  the  Bathgate  Herald  and 
South  Meadshire  Advertiser  devoted  two  of  its  val- 
uable columns  to  a  description  of  the  ceremony,  a 
list  of  the  distinguished  guests  present,  and  a  cata- 
logue of  the  wedding  presents.  No  name  that  could 
possibly  be  included  was  left  out.  The  confectioner 
who  supplied  the  cake,  the  head  gardeners  at  Kencote 
and  Mountfield  who — obligingly — supplied  the  floral 
decorations ;  the  organist  who  presided,  as  organists 
always  do,  at  the  organ,  and  gave  a  rendering,  a  very 
inefficient  one,  of  Mendelssohn's  Wedding  March ;  the 
schoolmaster  who  looked  after  the  children  who 
strewed  flowers  on  the  churchyard  path;  the  coach- 
man who  drove  the  happy  pair  to  the  station;  the 
station-master  who  arranged  for  them  a  little  salvo 
of  his  own,  which  took  the  form  of  fog-signals,  as 
the  train  came  in — they  were  all  there,  and  there 
was  not  an  error  in  their  initials  or  in  the  spelHng 

155 


156     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

of  their  names,  although  there  were  a  good  many  in 
the  list  of  distinguished  guests,  and  still  more  in  the 
long  catalogue  of  presents. 

There  was  a  large  number  of  presents,  more  than 
enough  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  readers  of  the 
Melhury  Park  Chronicle  and  North  London  Intelli- 
gencer, which,  by  courtesy  of  its  contemporary, 
printed  the  account  in  full,  except  for  the  omission 
of  local  names,  and  in  minion  instead  of  bourgeois 
type.  Some  of  the  presents  were  valuable  and  others 
were  expensively  useless,  and  the  opinion  expressed 
in  Melbury  Park  was  that  the  doctor  couldn't  possi- 
bly find  room  for  them  all  in  his  house  and  would 
have  to  take  a  bigger  one.  Melbury  Park  opened 
its  eyes  still  wider  at  the  number  of  titles  repre- 
sented amongst  the  donors,  for  the  Clintons,  as  has 
been  said,  had  frequently  married  blood,  and  many 
of  their  relations  were  represented,  Walter  had  been 
popular  with  his  school  and  college  friends,  and  on 
Muriel's  side  the  Conroys  and  their  numerous  con- 
nections had  come  down  handsomely  in  the  way  of 
Georgian  sugar-sifters,  gold  and  enamelled  umbrella 
tops,  silver  bowls  and  baskets  and  bridge  boxes, 
writing-sets,  and  candlesticks,  and  other  things  more 
or  less  adapted  to  the  use  of  a  doctor's  wife  in  a 
rather  poor  suburb  of  London. 

The  wedding,  if  not  "  a  scene  of  indescribable 
beauty,  fashion  and  profusion,"  as  the  Bathgate 
reporter,  scenting  promotion,  described  it,  was  a 
very  pretty  one.     The  two  big  houses  produced  for 


A   WEDDING  157 

the  occasion  a  sufficient  number  of  guests,  and  the 
surrounding  country  of  neighbours,  to  fill  Mountfield 
church  with  a  congregation  that  was  certainly  well 
dressed,  if  not  noticeably  reverent.  The  bride  looked 
beautiful,  if  a  trifle  pale,  under  her  veil  and  orange 
blossoms,  and  the  bridegroom  as  gallant  as  could  be 
expected  under  the  circumstances.  There  were  six 
bridesmaids,  the  Honourable  Olivia  and  Martha  Con- 
roy  and  Miss  Evelyn  Graham,  cousins  of  the  bride, 
and  the  Misses  Cicely,  Joan,  and  Nancy  Clinton, 
sisters  of  the  bridegroom,  who  were  attired — but 
why  go  further  into  these  details,  which  were  so  fully 
gone  into  in  the  journals  already  mentioned?  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  the  old  starling,  in  a  new  gown  and 
the  first  toque  she  had  ever  worn,  wept  tears  of  pride 
at  the  appearance  of  her  pupils,  and  told  them  after- 
wards, most  unwisely,  that  the  Misses  Olivia  and 
Martha  Conroy  could  not  hold  a  candle  to  them  in 
respect  of  good  looks. 

The  twins — there  is  no  gainsaying  it — did  look 
angelic,  with  their  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair,  and  the 
Misses  Conroy,  who  were  of  the  same  sort  of  age, 
were  not  so  well  favoured  by  nature;  but  that  was 
no  reason  why  Joan  should  have  told  them  that  they 
were  a  plain-headed  pair,  and  Nancy  that  they  had 
spoilt  the  w^hole  show,  when  some  trifling  dispute 
arose  between  them  at  the  close  of  a  long  day's 
enthusiastic  friendship.  The  Misses  Conroy,  though 
deficient  in  beauty,  were  not  slow  in  retort,  and  but 
for  the  fine  clothes  in  which  all  four  were  attired, 


158     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  quarrel  would  have  been 
pushed  to  extremes.  It  was  a  regrettable  incident, 
but  fortunately  took  place  in  a  retired  corner 
of  the  grounds,  and  stopped  short  of  actual  vio- 
lence. 

Jim  Graham  gave  his  sister  away,  and  Dick  acted 
as  best  man  to  his  brother,  piloting  him  through  the 
various  pitfalls  that  befall  a  bridegroom  with  the 
same  cool  efficiency  as  he  displayed  in  all  emergencies, 
great  or  small.  It  was  this  characteristic  which 
chiefly  differentiated  him  from  his  father,  who  may 
have  been  efficient,  but  was  not  cool. 

Jim  Graham's  eyes  often  rested  on  Cicely  during 
the  wedding  ceremony.  She  was  by  far  the  prettiest 
of  the  bridesmaids,  and  it  was  little  wonder  if  his 
thoughts  went  forward  to  the  time  when  he  and  she 
would  be  playing  the  leading  part  in  a  similar 
ceremony.  But  there  was  some  uneasiness  mixed 
with  these  anticipations.  Cicely  was  not  quite  the 
same  towards  him  as  she  had  been  before  his  journey, 
although  since  that  morning  by  the  lake  he  had 
made  no  attempt  to  depart  from  the  brotherly  inti- 
macy which  he  had  told  himself  was  the  best  he  had 
a  right  to  until  he  could  claim  her  for  his  own.  She 
had  never  seemed  quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  and 
he  was  beginning  to  follow  up  the  idea,  in  his  slow, 
tenacious  way,  that  his  wooing,  when  he  should  be 
ready  for  it,  would  have  to  be  done  all  over  again — 
that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  claim  her  for  his  own. 
And,  of  course,   that   made  him   desire  her  all   the 


A   WEDDING  159 

more,  and  added  in  his  eyes  to  her  grace  and  girlish 
beauty. 

Afterwards,  in  the  house  and  on  the  lawn,  where 
a  band  played  and  a  tent  for  refreshments  had  been 
put  up,  he  talked  to  her  whenever  he  could  and  did 
his  best  to  keep  a  cheerful,  careless  air,  succeeding 
so  well  that  no  one  observing  him  would  have 
guessed  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  doing  so.  Ex- 
cept Cicely;  she  felt  the  constraint.  She  felt  that 
he  was  in  process  of  marking  the  difference  in  her 
attitude  towards  him,  and  was  impatient  of  the  slow, 
ruminating  observation  of  which  she  would  be  the 
object.  As  long  as  he  was  natural  with  her  she  would 
do  her  best  to  keep  up  the  same  friendly  and  even 
affectionate  relations  which  had  existed  between  them 
up  to  a  year  ago,  but  she  could  not  help  a  sHght 
spice  of  irritation  creeping  into  her  manner  in  face 
of  that  subtle  change  behind  his  ordinary  address. 
She  was  trying  to  clear  up  her  thoughts  on  many 
matters,  and  Jim  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
help  her.  She  wanted  to  be  left  alone.  If  only  he 
would  do  that!  It  was  the  only  possible  way  by 
which  he  could  gain  the  end  which,  even  now,  she 
was  not  quite  sure  that  she  would  refuse  him  in  the 
long-run. 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  snappy,"  Jim  said  to  her, 
with  a  good-humoured  smile  on  his  placid  face  when 
he  had  asked  her  for  further  details  of  her  visit  to 
London. 

She  made  herself  smile  in  return.     "Was  1?  "  she 


160     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

said.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be ;  but  I  have  been  home 
nearly  a  month  now,  and  I'm  rather  tired  of  talking 
about  London." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Jim.  "  I  agree  that  this  is  a 
better  place.  Come  and  have  a  look  at  the  nags. 
There  has  been  such  a  bustle  that  I  haven't  been  near 
them  to-day." 

But  Cicely  refused  to  go  and  look  at  the  nags. 
Nags  were  rather  a  sore  point  with  her,  and  the 
constant  inspection  and  weighing  of  the  qualities  of 
those  at  Kencote  was  enough  for  her  without  the 
addition  of  the  stables  at  Mountfield.  So  they  went 
back  from  the  rose-garden  where  they  were  standing 
to  join  the  crowd  on  the  lawn. 

Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura  sat  in  the  shade  of  a 
big  cedar  and  held  a  small  reception.  During  their 
long  lives  they  had  been  of  scarcely  any  account  in 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  Clinton  affairs,  but  the  tide  of 
years  had  shelved  them  on  a  little  rock  of  importance, 
and  they  were  paid  court  to  because  of  their  age. 
Old  Lord  Meadshire  was  the  only  other  member  of 
their  generation  left  alive.  He  was  their  first 
cousin.  His  mother  had  been  the  youngest  of 
Merchant  Jack's  five  daughters.  He  had  never 
failed  to  pay  them  courteous  attention  whenever  he 
had  been  at  Kencote,  and  he  was  talking  to  them 
now,  as  Cicely  joined  them,  of  the  days  when  they 
were  all  young  together.  The  two  old  ladies  had 
quite  come  to  believe  that  they  and  their  cousin 
Humphrey  had  spent  a  large  part  of  their  childhood 


A    WEDDING  161 

together,  although  he  was  fifteen  years  younger  than 
Aunt  Ellen,  and  his  visits  to  Kencote  during  his 
youth  had  been  extremely  rare.  Colonel  Thomas  had 
been  too  busy  with  his  chosen  pursuits  to  have  much 
time  for  interchange  of  social  duties,  proclaimed 
himself  a  fish  out  of  water,  and  behaved  like  one, 
whenever  he  went  to  the  house  of  his  youngest  sister, 
and  had  little  to  offer  a  lady  of  high  social  impor- 
tance and  tastes  in  a  visit  to  his  own. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  Lord  Meadshire  said  to  Cicely, 
as  she  approached,  "  I  was  reminding  your  aunts  of 
the  time  when  we  used  to  drive  over  from  Melford 
to  Kencote  in  a  carriage  with  postillions.  Very  few 
railways  in  those  days.  We  old  people  like  to  put 
our  heads  together  and  talk  about  the  past  some- 
times. I  recollect  my  grandfather — our  grand- 
father," and  he  bowed  to  the  two  old  ladies — "  Mer- 
chant Jack  they  used  to  call  him  here,  because  he 
had  made  his  money  in  the  city  as  younger  sons  used 
to  do  in  those  days,  and  are  beginning  to  do  again 
now,  but  they  don't  go  into  trade  as  they  did  then; 
and  he  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  Battle  of  Cul- 
loden.    That  takes  you  back — w^hat  ?  " 

"  I  recollect,"  said  Aunt  Ellen  in  a  slow,  careful 
voice,  "  when  our  Uncle  John  used  to  come  down  to 
Kencote  by  the  four-horse  coach,  and  post  from 
Bathgate." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lord  Meadshire  sympathetically,  "  I 
never  saw  my  Uncle  John,  to  my  knowledge,  though 
he  left  me  a  hundred  pounds  in  his  will,     I  recollect 


162     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

I  spent  it  on  a  tie-pin.  I  was  an  extravagant  young 
dog  in  those  days,  my  dear.  You  wouldn't  have 
suspected  me  of  spending  a  hundred  pounds  on  a 
tie-pin,  would  you.^  " 

"  Uncle  John  was  very  kind  to  us,"  said  Aunt 
Laura.  "  There  were  six  of  us,  but  he  never  came 
to  the  house  without  bringing  us  each  a  little 
present." 

"  He  was  always  dressed  in  black  and  wore  a  tie- 
wig,"  said  Aunt  Ellen.  "  Our  dear  father  and  he 
were  very  dissimilar,  but  our  father  relied  on  his 
judgment.  It  was  he  who  advised  him  to  send  Ed- 
ward to  Bathgate  Grammar  School." 

"  He  would  take  a  kind  interest  in  our  pursuits," 
said  Aunt  Laura,  "  and  would  always  walk  with  us 
and  spend  part  of  the  day  with  us,  however  occupied 
he  might  be  with  our  father." 

"  Edward  was  very  high-spirited  as  a  child,"  said 
Aunt  Ellen,  "  and  our  dear  father  did  not  sufficiently 
realise  that  if  he  encouraged  him  to  break  away  from 
his  lessons,  which  we  all  took  it  in  turns  to  give  him, 
it  made  him  difficult  to  teach." 

"  And  when  Uncle  John  went  away  in  the  morning 
he  gave  us  each  one  a  present  of  five  new  sovereigns 
wrapped  in  tissue  paper,"  said  Aunt  Laura,  "  and  he 
would  say,  '  That  is  to  buy  fal-lals  with.'  " 

"  So  our  Uncle  John  and  our  Uncle  Giles,  the 
Rector,  persuaded  our  father  to  send  Edward  to 
Bathgate  Grammar  School,  where  he  remained  until 
he  went  to  Eton,  riding  over  there  on  Monday  morn- 


A   WEDDING  163 

ing  and  returning  home  on  Saturday,"  concluded 
Aunt  Ellen. 

Lord  Meadshire  took  his  leave  of  the  old  ladies, 
and  Aunt  Ellen  said,  "  I  am  afraid  that  our  cousin 
Humphrey  is  ageing.  We  do  not  see  him  as  much 
as  we  used  to  do.  He  was  very  frequently  at  Ken- 
cote  in  the  old  days,  and  we  were  always  pleased  to 
see  him.  With  the  exception  of  your  dear  father, 
there  is  no  man  for  whom  I  have  a  greater  regard." 

"  He  is  a  darling,"  said  Cicely.  "  He  is  as  kind  as 
possible  to  everybody.  Would  you  like  me  to  get  you 
anything.  Aunt  Ellen?    I  must  go  to  Muriel  now." 

"  No  thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Ellen. 
"  Your  Aunt  Laura  and  I  have  had  sufficient.  We 
will  just  rest  quietly  in  the  shade,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  some  others  of  our  kind  friends  will  come  and 
talk  to  us." 

It  was  getting  towards  the  time  for  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  to  depart  for  their  honeymoon,  which 
they  were  to  spend  in  Norway.  Walter  had  had  no 
holiday  of  any  sort  that  year  and  had  thought  the 
desire  for  solitude  incumbent  on  newly  married 
couples  might  reasonably  be  conjoined  with  the  de- 
sire for  catching  salmon ;  and  Muriel  had  agreed  with 
him. 

The  men  were  beginning  to  show  a  tendency  to 
separate  from  the  ladies.  The  Rector  of  Kencote 
and  the  Vicar  of  Melbury  Park,  a  new  friend  of 
Walter's  who  happened,  as  the  Squire  put  it,  to  be 
a   gentleman,   were  talking   together   by   the   buffet 


164     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

under  the  tent.  The  Vicar,  who  was  thin  and  elderly, 
and  looked  jaded,  was  saying  that  the  refreshment 
to  mind  and  spirit,  to  say  nothing  of  body,  which 
came  from  living  close  to  Nature  was  incalculable, 
and  the  Rector  was  agreeing  with  him,  mentally  re- 
serving his  opinion  that  the  real  refreshment  to  mind 
and  spirit,  to  say  nothing  of  body,  was  to  be  found, 
if  a  man  were  strong  enough  to  find  it,  in  hard  and 
never-ending  work  in  a  town. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  buffet  Dick  and  Humphrey 
and  Jim  Graham  were  eating  sandwiches  and  drink- 
ing champagne.  They  were  talking  of  fishing,  with 
reference  to  Walter's  approaching  visit  to  a  water 
which  all  four  of  them  had  once  fished  together. 

"  It  is  rather  sad,  you  know,"  said  Humphrey. 
"  Remember  what  a  good  time  we  had,  Jim  ?  It'll 
never  happen  again.  I  hate  a  wedding.  It'll  be  you 
next." 

Jim  looked  at  him  inscrutably.  "  Or  Dick,"  he 
said. 

Dick  put  down  his  glass.  "  I'm  not  a  starter,"  he 
said.  "  I  must  go  and  see  that  Walter  doesn't  forget 
to  change  his  tie." 

The  Squire  and  Mrs.  Clinton  and  Lord  Conroy 
were  in  a  group  together  on  the  lawn.  Lord  Conroy, 
bluff  and  bucolic,  was  telling  Mrs.  Clinton  about  his 
own  marriage,  fifteen  years  before.  "  Never  thought 
I  should  do  it,"  he  said,  "  never.  There  was  I,  forty 
and  more,  but  sound,  Mrs.  Clinton,  mind  you,  sound 
as  a  bell,  though  no  beauty — ha,  ha!     And  there 


AWEDDING  165 

was  my  lady,  twenty  odd,  as  pretty  as  paint,  and 
with  half  the  young  fellows  in  London  after  her.  I 
said,  '  Come  now,  will  you  have  me?  Will  you  or 
won't  you?  I'm  not  going  near  London,'  I  said, 
'  not  once  in  five  years,  and  I  don't  like  soup. 
Otherwise  you'll  have  your  own  way  and  you'll  find 
me  easy  to  get  on  with.'  She  took  me,  and  here  we 
are  now.  I  don't  believe  there's  a  happier  couple  in 
England.  I  believe  in  marrying,  myself.  Wish  I'd 
done  it  when  I  was  a  young  fellow,  only  then  I 
shouldn't  have  got  my  lady.  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
my  niece  married  to  such  a  nice  young  fellow  as  your 
son — very  glad  indeed ;  and  my  sister  tells  me  there's 
likely  to  be  another  wedding  in  both  families  before 
long — eh?  Well,  I  mustn't  be  too  inquisitive;  but 
Jim's  a  nice  young  fellow  too,  a  very  nice  young 
fellow,  though  as  obstinate  as  the  devil  about  this 
Radical  kink  he's  got  in  his  brain." 

"  Oh,  he'll  get  over  that,"  said  the  Squire.  "  It 
isn't  sense,  you  know,  going  against  the  best  brains 
in  the  country;  I  tell  him  we're  not  all  likely  to  be 
wrong.  And  he's  got  a  stake,  too.  It  don't  do  to 
play  old  Harry  with  politics  when  you've  got  a 
stake." 

"  Gad,  no,"  assented  Lord  Conroy.  "  We've  got 
to  stand  together.  I'm  afraid  your  brother's  against 
us,  though,  eh,  Mrs.  Clinton?" 

"  Oh,  Herbert !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  He's  a  lawyer, 
and  they  can  always  make  white  black  if  it  suits  'em." 

Mrs.   Clinton  flushed   faintly,  and  Lord   Conroy 


166     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

said,  "  He's  a  very  rising  man,  though,  and  not  so 
advanced  as  some.  He  told  me  a  story  just  now 
about  a  judge  and  one  of  those  Suffragettes,  as  they 
call  'em,  and  I  haven't  heard  such  a  good  story  for 
many  a  long  day."  And  Lord  Conroy  laughed  very 
heartily,  but  did  not  repeat  the  story. 

The  carriage  drove  round  to  the  door,  the  coach- 
man and  the  horses  adorned  with  white  favours,  and 
the  guests  drifted  towards  the  house  and  into  the 
big  hall.  Walter  and  Dick  came  down  the  staircase, 
and  Muriel  and  her  mother  and  Cicely  followed  im- 
mediately afterwards.  Muriel's  eyes  were  wet,  but 
she  was  merry  and  talkative,  and  Mrs.  Graham  was 
more  brusque  in  her  speech  than  usual,  but  very 
talkative  too.  Every  one  crowded  round  them,  and 
Walter  had  some  difficulty  in  leading  his  bride 
through  the  throng.  There  was  laughter  and  hand- 
shaking and  a  general  polite  uproar.  At  last  they 
got  themselves  into  the  carriage,  which  rolled  away 
with  them  to  their  new  life.  It  was  really  Joan  and 
Nancy  who  had  conceived  the  idea  of  tying  a  pair 
of  goloshes  on  behind,  but  the  Misses  Conroy  had 
provided  them,  one  apiece,  and  claimed  an  equal 
share  in  the  suggestion.  It  was  arising  out  of  this 
that  their  quarrel  presently  ensued,  and  they  might 
not  have  quarrelled  at  all  had  not  Miss  Bird  told 
the  twins  in  the  hearing  of  their  friends  that  where 
they  had  learned  such  a  vulgar  notion  passed  her 
comprehension.  It  was  really  a  dispute  that  did  all 
four  young  ladies  very  great  credit. 


CHAPTER    XII 

FOOD    AND    RAIMENT 

The  Rector  gave  out  his  text,  "  Is  not  the  life  more 
than  meat  and  the  body  more  than  raiment?  "  and 
proceeded  to  read  his  homily  in  a  monotonous,  sweet- 
toned  voice  which  had  all  the  good  effects  of  a  sleep- 
ing-draught and  none  of  the  bad  ones. 

Kencote  church  was  old,  and  untouched  by  modern 
restoration  or  Catholic  zeal.  The  great  west  door 
was  open,  and  framed  a  bright  picture  of  trees  and 
grass  and  cloudless  sky.  The  hot  sunshine  of  an 
August  morning  shone  through  the  traceried  windows 
in  the  nave,  and  threw  a  square  of  bright  colour 
from  the  little  memorial  window  in  the  chancel  on  to 
the  wide,  uneven  stone  pavement.  But  the  church 
was  cool,  with  the  coolness  of  ancient,  stone-built 
places,  which  have  resisted  for  centuries  the  attacks 
of  sun  and  storm  alike,  and  gained  something  of  the 
tranquil  insensibility  of  age. 

The  congregation  was  penned,  for  the  most  part, 
in  high  pews.  When  they  stood  up  to  sing  they 
presented  a  few  score  of  heads  and  shoulders  above 
the  squares  and  oblongs  of  dark  woodwork ;  when 
they  sat  or  knelt  the  nave  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
emptied  of  worshippers,  and  the  drone  of  the  re- 
sponses  mounting   up   to   the   raftered   roof   had   a 

167 


168     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

curious  effect,  and  seemed  to  be  the  voice  of  the  old 
church  itself,  paying  its  tribute  to  the  unseen 
mysteries  of  the  long  ages  of  faith. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  chancel,  which  was  two 
steps  higher  than  the  nave,  was  the  Squire's  pew. 
Its  occupants  were  shielded  from  the  gaze  of  those 
in  the  body  of  the  church  by  a  faded  red  curtain 
hung  on  an  iron  rail,  but  the  Squire  always  drew  it 
boldly  aside  during  the  exhortation  and  surveyed  the 
congregation,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  de- 
pendent on  him  for  a  livelihood  and  attended  church 
as  an  undergraduate  "  keeps  chapels,"  for  fear  of 
unpleasant  consequences. 

The  Squire's  pew  occupied  the  whole  of  the  space 
usually  devoted  to  the  organ  and  the  vestry  in 
modern  built  churches,  and  had  a  separate  entrance 
from  the  churchyard.  It  had  a  wooden  floor,  upon 
which  was  a  worn  blue  carpet  sprinkled  with  yellow 
fleurs  de  lis.  The  big  hassocks  and  the  seat  that 
ran  along  the  north  wall  were  covered  with  the  same 
material.  In  front  of  the  fixed  bench  was  a  row  of 
heavy  chairs ;  in  the  wall  opposite  to  the  curtain  was 
a  fireplace.  Mrs.  Clinton  occupied  the  chair  nearest 
to  the  fire,  which  was  always  lit  early  on  Sunday 
morning  in  the  winter,  but  owing  partly  to  the  out- 
of-date  fashion  of  the  grate  and  partly  to  the  height 
and  extent  of  the  church,  gave  no  more  heat  than 
was  comfortable  to  those  immediately  within  its 
radius,  and  none  at  all  to  those  a  little  way  from 
it.    The  Squire  himself  remained  outside  its  grateful 


FOOD    AND    RAIMENT  169 

influence.  His  large,  healthy  frame,  well  covered  with 
flesh,  enabled  him  to  dispense  with  artificial  warmth 
during  his  hour  and  a  half's  occupation  of  the  family 
pew,  and  also  to  do  his  duty  by  using  the  last  of  the 
row  of  chairs  and  hassocks,  and  so  to  command  the 
opportunities  afforded  by  the  red  curtain. 

On  the  stone  walls  above  the  wainscoting  were 
hung  great  hatchments,  the  canvas  of  some  fraying 
away  from  the  black  quadrangular  frames  after  a 
lapse  of  years,  and  none  of  them  very  recently  hung 
there.  The  front  of  the  pew  was  open  to  the  chancel, 
and  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  reading-desk  and 
a  side  glimpse  of  the  pulpit  through  the  bars  of  the 
carved,  rather  battered  rood-screen.  Flanked  by  the 
reading-desk  on  one  side  and  the  harmonium  on  the 
other  were  the  benches  occupied  by  the  school- 
children who  formed  the  choir,  and  behind  them  were 
other  benches  devoted  to  the  use  of  the  Squire's 
household,  whose  devotions  were  screened  from  the 
gaze  of  the  common  worshippers  by  no  curtain,  and 
who,  therefore — maids,  middle-aged  women,  and 
spruce  men-servants — provided  a  source  of  interested 
rumination  when  heads  were  raised  above  the  wooden 
partitions,  and  bonnets,  mantles,  and  broadcloth 
could  be  examined,  and  perhaps  envied,  at  leisure. 

Cicely  had  played  the  Rector  up  into  the  pulpit 
with  the  last  verse  of  a  hymn,  had  found  the  place 
from  which  she  would  presently  play  him  down  again 
with  the  tune  of  another,  had  propped  the  open  book 
on  the  desk  of  the  harmonium,  and  had  then  slid 


no     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

noiselessly  into  a  chair  on  a  line  with  the  front  choir 
bench,  where  she  now  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
facing  the  members  of  her  assembled  family,  some- 
times looking  down  at  the  memorial  brass  of  Sir 
Richard  Chnton,  knight,  obiit  1445,  which  was  let 
into  the  pavement  at  her  feet,  sometimes,  through 
the  open  doors  of  the  rood  screen,  to  where  that 
bright  picture  of  sunlit  green  shone  out  of  the  sur- 
rounding gloom  at  the  end  of  the  aisle. 

"  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat  and  the  body 
than  raiment?  "  The  text  had  been  given  out  twice 
and  carefully  indexed  each  time.  The  Squire  had 
fitted  his  gold-rimmed  glasses  on  to  his  nose  and 
tracked  down  the  passage  in  his  big  Bible.  Having 
satisfied  himself  that  the  words  announced  were 
identical  with  the  words  printed,  he  had  put  the  Bible 
on  the  narrow  shelf  in  front  of  him  and  closed  his 
eyes.  His  first  nod  had  followed,  as  usual,  about 
three  minutes  after  the  commencement  of  the  ser- 
mon. He  had  then  opened  his  eyes  wide,  met  the 
fascinated  gaze  of  a  small  singing-girl  opposite  to 
him,  glared  at  her,  and,  having  reduced  her  to  a 
state  of  cataleptic  terror,  pushed  aside  the  red  cur- 
tain and  transferred  his  glare  to  the  body  of  the 
church.  The  bald  head  of  a  respectable  farmer  and 
the  bonnet  of  his  wife,  which  were  all  he  could  see 
of  the  congregation  at  the  moment,  assured  him  that 
all  was  well.  He  drew  the  curtain  again  and  went 
comfortably  to  sleep  without  further  ado. 

Mrs.  Clinton,  at  the  other  end  of  the  row,  sat  quite 


FOOD    AND    RAIMENT  171 

still,  with  no  more  evidence  of  mental  effort  on  her 
comely,  middle-aged  face  than  was  necessary  for  the 
due  reception  of  the  Rector's  ideas,  and  that  was 
very  little.  Joan  and  Nancy  sat  one  on  either  side 
of  Miss  Bird,  Joan  next  to  her  mother.  They  looked 
about  everywhere  but  at  the  preacher,  and  bided 
with  what  patience  they  possessed  the  end  of  the 
discourse,  aided  thereto  by  a  watchful  eye  and  an 
occasional  admonitory  peck  from  the  old  starling. 
Dick  had  come  in  late  and  settled  himself  upon  the 
seat  behind  the  row  of  chairs.  Upon  the  commence- 
ment of  the  sermon  he  had  put  his  back  against  the 
partition  supporting  the  curtain,  and  his  long  legs 
up  on  the  bench  in  front  of  him,  and  by  the  look  on 
his  lean,  sunburnt  face  was  apparently  resting  his 
brain  as  well  as  his  body. 

"  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat  and  the  body  than 
raiment?  "  The  technique  of  the  Rector's  sermons 
involved  the  repetition  of  his  text  at  stated  intervals. 
Cicely  thought,  as  the  words  fell  on  her  ears  for  the 
third  or  fourth  time,  that  she  could  have  supplied 
a  meaning  to  them  which  had  escaped  the  preacher. 
Food  and  raiment !  That  represented  all  the  things 
amongst  which  she  had  been  brought  up,  the  large, 
comfortable  rooms  in  the  big  house,  the  abundant, 
punctual  meals,  the  tribe  of  servants,  the  clothes  and 
the  trinkets,  the  gardens  and  stables,  well-stocked 
and  well-filled,  the  home  farm,  kept  up  to  supply  the 
needs  of  the  large  household,  everything  that  came 
to  the  children  of  a  well-to-do  country  gentleman  as 


172     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

a  matter  of  course,  and  made  life  easy — but  oh,  how 
dull! 

No  one  seeing  her  sitting  there  quietly,  her  slender, 
ungloved  hands  lying  in  her  lap,  prettily  dressed  in 
a  cool  summer  frock  and  a  shady,  flower-trimmed 
hat,  with  the  jewelled  chains  and  bracelets  and 
brooches  of  a  rich  man's  daughter  rousing  the  admir- 
ing envy  of  the  school-children,  whose  weekly  excite- 
ment it  was  to  count  them  up — nobody  would  have 
thought  that  under  the  plaited  tresses  of  this  young 
girl's  shapely  head  was  a  brain  seething  in  revolt,  or 
that  the  silken  laces  of  her  bodice  muffled  the  beat- 
ings of  a  heart  suffocated  by  the  luxurious  dulness  of 
a  life  which  she  now  told  herself  had  become  insup- 
portable. Cicely  had  thought  a  great  deal  since  her 
visit  to  London  and  Muriel's  wedding,  and  had  ar- 
rived at  this  conclusion — that  she  was  suffocating, 
and  that  her  life  was  insupportable. 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  glanced  at  her  father, 
wrapped  in  the  pleasant  slumber  that  overtakes 
healthy,  out-of-door  men  when  they  are  forced  for 
a  time  into  unwonted  quiescence,  and  at  her  brother, 
calm  and  self-satisfied,  dressed  with  a  correct  elabo- 
ration that  was  only  unobtrusive  because  it  was  so 
expensively  perfect.  The  men  of  the  family — ^every- 
thing was  done  to  bring  them  honour  and  gratifica- 
tion. They  had  everything  they  wanted  and  did  what 
they  would.  It  was  to  them  that  tribute  and  obedi- 
ence were  paid  by  every  one  around  them,  including 
their  own  women-folk. 


FOOD   AND    RAIMENT  173 

She  looked  at  her  two  young  sisters.  They  were 
happy  enough  in  their  free  and  healthy  childhood ; 
so  had  she  been  at  their  age,  when  the  spacious  house 
and  the  big  gardens,  the  stables  and  the  farm  and 
the  open  country  had  provided  everything  she  needed 
for  her  amusement.  But  even  then  there  had  been 
the  irksome  restraint  exercised  by  "  the  old  starling  " 
and  the  fixed  rules  of  the  house  to  spoil  her  freedom, 
while  her  brothers  had  been  away  at  Eton,  or  at 
Oxford  or  Cambridge,  trying  their  wings  and  pre- 
paring for  the  unfettered  delights  of  well-endowed 
manhood. 

She  looked  at  her  mother,  placid  and  motionless. 
Her  mother  was  something  of  an  enigma,  even  to  her, 
for  to  those  who  knew  her  well  she  always  seemed 
to  be  hiding  something,  something  in  her  character, 
which  yet  made  its  mark  in  spite  of  the  subjection 
in  which  she  Hved.  Cicely  loved  her  mother,  but 
she  thought  of  her  now  with  the  least  little  shade  of 
contempt,  which  she  would  have  been  shocked  to 
recognise  as  such.  Why  had  she  been  content  to 
bring  all  the  hopes  and  ambitions  that  must  have 
stirred  her  girlhood  thus  into  subjection?  What 
was  the  range  of  her  life  now?  Ruling  her  large 
house  with  a  single  eye  to  the  convenience  of  her 
lord  and  master,  liable  to  be  scolded  before  her 
children  or  her  household  if  anything  went  wrong; 
blamed  if  the  faults  of  any  one  of  the  small  army 
of  servants  reached  the  point  at  which  it  disturbed 
his  ease ;  driving  out  in  her  fine  carriage  to  pay  dull 


174     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

calls  on  dull  neighbours ;  looking  after  the  comfort 
of  ungrateful  villagers ;  going  to  church ;  going  to 
dinner-parties ;  reading ;  sewing ;  gardening  under 
pain  of  the  head  gardener's  displeasure,  which  was 
always  backed  up  by  the  Squire  if  complaint  was 
brought  to  him  that  she  had  braved  it;  getting  up 
in  the  morning  and  going  to  bed  at  night,  at  stated 
hours  without  variation;  never  leaving  her  cage  of 
confined  luxury,  except  when  it  suited  his  con- 
venience that  she  should  leave  it  with  him.  She  was 
nothing  but  a  slave  to  his  whims  and  prejudices,  and 
so  were  all  the  women  of  the  family,  slaves  to  wait 
upon  and  defer  humbly  and  obediently  to  their 
mankind. 

"  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat  and  the  body  than 
raiment?  "  It  was  the  men  who  enjoyed  the  life, 
and  the  meat  and  raiment  as  well.  While  the  women 
vegetated  at  home,  they  went  out  into  the  world. 
It  was  true  that  they  were  always  pleased  to  come 
back  again,  and  no  wonder,  when  everything  was 
there  that  could  minister  to  their  amusement.  It 
was  quite  different  for  her,  living  at  home  all  the 
year  round.  She  was  quite  sick  of  it.  Why  was 
not  her  father  like  other  men  of  his  wealth  and 
lineage,  who  had  their  country  houses  and  their 
country  sports,  but  did  not  spend  the  whole  year 
over  them?  Daughters  of  men  of  far  less  estab- 
lished position  than  the  Squire  went  to  London,  went 
abroad,  visited  constantly  at  other  country  houses, 
and  saw  many  guests  in  their  own  houses.     Her  own 


FOOD    AND    RAIMENT  175 

brothers  did  all  these  things,  except  the  last.  They 
seldom  brought  their  friends  to  Kencote,  she  sup- 
posed because  it  was  not  like  other  big  country 
houses,  at  any  rate  not  Hke  the  houses  at  which  they 
stayed.  It  was  old-fashioned,  not  amusing  enough; 
shooting  parties  were  nearly  always  made  up  from 
amongst  neighbours,  and  if  any  one  stayed  in  the 
house  to  shoot,  or  for  the  few  winter  balls,  it  was 
nearly  always  a  relation,  or  at  best  a  party  of  rela- 
tions. And  the  very  few  visits  Cicely  had  ever  paid 
had  been  to  the  houses  of  relations,  some  of  them 
amusing,  others  not  at  all  so. 

She  was  now  rather  ashamed  of  her  diatribe  to 
Muriel  Graham  about  her  London  visit.  She  must 
have  given  Muriel  the  impression  that  what  she 
hungered  for  was  smart  society.  She  remembered 
that  she  had  compared  the  ball  at  the  house  of  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Birket,  unfavourably  with  those  at  other 
houses  at  which  she  had  danced,  and  blushed  and 
fidgeted  with  her  fingers  when  she  thought  of  this. 
She  liked  staying  with  Mrs.  Birket  better  than  with 
any  other  of  her  relations,  and  she  was  still  sore  at 
her  father's  refusal  to  allow  her  to  spend  some 
months  with  her.  She  met  clever,  interesting  people 
there,  she  was  always  made  much  of,  and  she  ad- 
mired and  envied  her  cousins.  They  had  travelled, 
they  heard  music,  saw  plays  and  pictures,  read 
books ;  and  they  could  talk  upon  all  these  subjects,  as 
well  as  upon  politics  and  upon  what  was  going  on 
in  the  big  world  that  really  mattered — not  super- 


176     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

ficially,  but  as  if  they  were  the  things  that  interested 
them  most,  as  she  knew  they  were.  It  was  that  kind 
of  life  she  really  longed  for;  she  had  only  got  her 
thoughts  a  little  muddled  in  London  because  she 
had  been  rather  humiliated  in  feeling  herself  a 
stranger  where  her  brothers  were  so  much  at  home. 
When  she  saw  Muriel  again  she  must  put  herself 
right  there.  Muriel  would  understand  her.  Muriel 
had  cut  herself  adrift  from  the  well-fed  stagnation 
of  country  life  and  rejoiced  to  be  the  partner  of  a 
man  who  was  doing  something  in  the  world.  Life 
was  more  than  food  to  her  and  the  body  than 
raiment.  Cicely  wished  that  such  a  chance  had  come 
to  her. 

But  the  Rector  had  repeated  his  text  for  the  last 
time,  and  was  drawing  to  the  end  of  his  discourse. 
She  must  slip  back  to  her  seat  at  the  harmonium,  and 
defer  the  consideration  of  her  own  hardships  until 
later. 

The  congregation  aroused  itself  and  stood  up  upon 
the  stroke  of  the  word  "  now  " ;  and,  whilst  the  last 
hymn  was  being  given  out  and  played  over,  the 
Squire  started  on  a  collecting  tour  with  the  wooden, 
baize-lined  plate  which  he  drew  from  beneath  his 
chair.  The  coppers  clinked  one  by  one  upon  the 
silver  already  deposited  by  himself  and  his  family, 
and  he  closely  scrutinised  the  successive  offerings. 
His  heels  rang  out  manfully  upon  the  worn  pavement 
beneath  which  his  ancestors  were  sleeping,  as  he 
strode  up  the  chancel  and  handed  the  alms  to  the 


FOOD    AND    RAIMENT  177 

Rector.  He  was  refreshed  by  his  Hght  slumber,  his 
weekly  duty  was  coming  to  an  end,  and  he  would 
soon  be  out  in  the  open  air  inspecting  his  stables 
and  looking  forward  to  his  luncheon.  He  sang  the 
last  verses  of  the  hymn  lustily,  his  glasses  on  his 
nose,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  quite  satisfied  with  him- 
self and  the  state  in  life  to  which  he  had  been 
called. 

The  congregation  filed  out  of  church  into  the 
bright  sunshine.  Dick,  with  Joan  on  one  side  of  him 
and  Nancy  on  the  other,  set  out  at  a  smart  pace 
across  the  park,  bound  for  the  stables  and  the  home 
farm.  Cicely  walked  with  the  old  starling,  who  lifted 
her  flounced  skirt  over  her  square-toed  kid  boots,  as 
one  who  expected  to  find  dew  where  she  found  grass, 
even  in  the  hot  August  noonday.  The  Squire  and 
Mrs.  Clinton  brought  up  the  rear,  and  the  men  and 
maids  straggled  along  a  footpath  which  diverged  to 
another  quarter   of  the  house. 

Cicely  left  the  rest  of  the  family  to  the  time- 
honoured  inspection  of  horses  and  live  stock,  always 
undertaken,  summer  and  winter,  after  church  on 
Sunday  morning,  as  a  permissible  recreation  on  a 
day  otherwise  devoted  to  sedentary  pursuits.  It 
was  one  of  the  tiresome  routine  habits  of  her  life, 
and  she  was  sick  of  routine.  She  dawdled  in  her 
bedroom,  a  room  at  least  twenty  feet  square,  with 
two  big  windows  overlooking  the  garden  and  the 
park  and  the  church  tower  rising  from  amongst  its 
trees,    until    the   gong    sounded,    when   she    hurried 


178     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

downstairs  and  took  her  seat  at  the  luncheon  table 
on  the  right  of  her  father. 

The  sweets  and  a  big  cake  were  on  the  table,  of 
which  the  appointments  were  a  mixture  of  massive 
silver  plate  and  inexpensive  glass  and  china.  The 
servants  handed  round  the  first  hot  dish,  placed  a 
cold  uncut  sirloin  of  beef  in  front  of  the  Squire  and 
vegetable  dishes  on  the  sideboard,  and  then  left  the 
room.  After  that  it  was  every  one  help  yourself. 
This  was  the  invariable  arrangement  of  luncheon  on 
Sundays,  and  allowing  for  the  difference  of  the 
seasons  the  viands  were  always  the  same.  If  any- 
body staying  in  the  house  liked  to  turn  up  their 
noses  at  such  Sunday  fare — one  hot  entree,  cold  beef, 
fruit  tarts  and  milk  puddings,  a  ripe  cheese  and  a 
good  bottle  of  wine,  why  they  needn't  come  again. 
But  very  few  people  did  stay  in  the  house,  as  has 
been  said,  and  none  of  those  who  did  had  ever  been 
known  to  object.  There  were  no  week-end  parties, 
no  traffic  of  mere  acquaintances  using  the  house  like 
an  hotel  and  amusing  themselves  with  no  reference 
to  their  host  or  hostess.  The  Squire  was  hospitable 
in  an  old-fashioned  way,  liked  to  see  his  friends 
around  him  and  gave  them  of  his  best.  But  they 
must  be  friends,  and  they  must  conform  to  the  usages 
of  the  house. 

The  talk  over  the  luncheon  table  began  with  the 
perennial  topic  of  the  breeding  of  partridges  and 
pheasants,  and  was  carried  on  between  the  Squire 
and  Dick,  while  the  women  kept  submissive  silence 


FOOD   AND   RAIMENT  179 

in  the  face  of  important  matters  with  which  they 
had  no  concern.  Then  it  took  a  more  general 
turn,  and  drifted  into  a  reminiscence  of  the  con- 
versation that  had  taken  place  over  the  dinner  table 
the  night  before.  Mrs.  Graham  and  Jim  had  dined 
at  Kencote  and  brought  Ronald  Mackenzie  with 
them,  who  had  arrived  the  evening  before  on  his 
promised  week-end  visit. 

Humphrey's  prophecy  had  come  true.  Mackenzie 
had  been  the  lion  of  the  London  season,  and  now  that 
London  was  empty  might  have  taken  his  choice  of 
country  houses  for  a  week-end  visit  from  whatever 
county  he  pleased.  His  visit  was  something  of  an 
honour,  and  was  even  chronicled  in  the  newspapers, 
which  had  not  yet  lost  interest  in  his  movements. 
He  was  a  star  of  considerable  magnitude,  liable  to 
wane,  of  course,  but  never  to  sink  quite  into  ob- 
scurity, and  just  now  a  planet  within  everybody's 
ken. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  Clinton  point  of  view 
that  the  parentage  of  this  man,  whose  sole  title  to 
fame  arose  from  the  things  that  he  had  done,  should 
be  discussed.  Dick  knew  all  about  him.  He  did  not 
belong  to  any  particular  family  of  Mackenzies.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  Scots  peasant,  and  was  said  to  have 
tramped  to  London  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  to  have 
taken  forcible  shipment  as  a  stowaway  in  the  Black- 
Lyell  Arctic  Expedition ;  and  afterwards  to  have 
climbed  to  the  leadership  of  expeditions  of  his  own 
with  incredible  rapidity.     He  had  never  made  any 


180     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

secret  of  his  lowly  origin,  and  was  even  said  to  be 
proud  of  it.    The  Squire  approved  heartily  of  this. 

It  was  also  characteristic  of  the  Squire  that  a  man 
who  had  done  big  things  and  got  himself  talked  about 
should  be  accepted  frankly  as  an  equal,  and,  outside 
the  sphere  of  clanship,  even  as  a  superior.  A  great 
musician  would  have  been  treated  in  the  same  way, 
or  a  great  painter,  or  even  a  great  scholar.  For  the 
Squire  belonged  to  the  class  of  all  others  the  most 
prejudiced  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  easily  led, 
when  its  slow-moving  imagination  is  once  touched — 
a  class  which  believes  itself  divinely  appointed  to 
rule,  but  will  give  political  adherence  and  almost 
passionate  personal  loyalty  to  men  whom  in  the  type 
it  most  dislikes,  its  members  following  one  another 
like  sheep  when  their  first  instinctive  mistrust  has 
been  overcome.  Mackenzie  was  one  of  the  most 
talked  of  men  in  England  at  this  moment.  It  was 
a  matter  of  congratulation  that  Jim  had  caught  him 
for  a  two-days'  visit,  though  Jim's  catch  had  involved 
no  more  skill  than  was  needed  to  answer  an  unex- 
pected note  from  Mackenzie  announcing  his  arrival 
on  Friday  afternoon.  The  Clintons  had  dined  at 
Mountfield  on  Friday  night,  the  Grahams  and  Mac- 
kenzie had  dined  at  Kencote  on  Saturday,  and  it  had 
been  arranged  that  Jim  and  his  guest  should  drive 
over  this  afternoon  and  stay  to  dine  again. 

When  luncheon  was  over  the  Squire  retired  into 
the  library  with  the  Spectator^  which  it  was  known 
he  would  not  read,  Dick  went  into  the  smoking-room, 


FOOD    AND    RAIMENT  181 

Mrs.  Clinton  and  Miss  Bird  upstairs,  and  the  twins 
straight  into  the  garden,  where  Cicely  presently  fol- 
lowed them  with  a  book.  She  settled  herself  in  a 
basket  chair  under  a  great  lime  tree  on  the  lawn,  and 
leaving  her  book  lying  unopened  on  her  lap,  gave 
herself  over  to  further  reverie. 

Perhaps  the  sudden  descent  of  this  man  from  a 
strange  world  into  the  placid  waters  of  her  Hfe  had 
something   to   do   with  the   surging   up   of  her   dis- 
content, for  she  had  not  been  so  discontented  since 
the  Birkets'  visit  two  months  before,  having  followed 
out  to  some  extent  her  uncle's  advice  and  found  life 
quite  supportable  in  consequence.     She  knew  she  had 
waited   for    Mackenzie's    name    to   be   mentioned    at 
luncheon  and  had  blushed  when  she  heard  it,  only, 
fortunately,  nobody  had  seen  her,  not  even  the  sharp- 
eyed  twins.     She  would  have  resented  it  intensely  if 
her  interest  and  her  blush  had  been  noticed,  and  put 
down  to  personal  attraction.     It  was  not  that  at  all. 
She  rather  disliked  the  man,  with  his  keen,  hawklike 
face,  his  piercing  eyes,  and  his  direct,  unvarnished 
speech.     He  was  the  sort  of  man  of  whom  a  woman 
might  have  reason  to  be  afraid  if  she  were,  by  unac- 
countable mischance,   attracted  by  him,   and  he  by 
her.     He  would  dominate  her  and  she  would  be  at 
least  as  much  of  a  chattel  as  in  the  hands  of  a  male 
Clinton.     It  was  what  he  stood  for  that  interested 
her,  and  she  could  not  help  comparing  his  life  with 
that  of  her  father  and  her  brothers,  or  of  Jim  Gra- 
ham, much  to  the  disadvantage  of  her  own  kind. 


182     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

Her  resentment,  if  it  deserved  that  name,  had  fixed 
itself  upon  her  father  and  brothers,  and  Jim  shared 
in  it.  He  was  just  the  same  as  they  were,  making 
the  little  work  incumbent  on  him  as  easy  as  possible 
and  spending  the  best  part  of  his  life  in  the  pursuits 
he  liked  best.  She  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  no  place  for  her  in  such  a  life  as  that. 
When  Jim  proposed  to  her,  as  she  felt  sure  he  would 
do  when  he  was  ready,  she  would  refuse  him.  She 
felt  now  that  she  really  could  not  go  through  with 
it,  and  her  determination  to  refuse  to  marry  Jim 
rose  up  in  her  mind  and  fixed  itself  as  she  sat  in  her 
chair  under  the  tree.  If  he  had  been  a  poor  man, 
with  a  profession  to  work  at,  she  would  have  married 
him  and  found  her  happiness  in  helping  him  on.  She 
wanted  the  life.  The  food  and  the  raiment  were 
nothing  to  her,  either  at  Kencote  or  Mountfield. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

BONAKD    MACKENZIE 

Cicely  rose  from  her  seat  and  strolled  across  the 
lawn,  through  an  iron  gate  and  a  flower-garden,  and 
on  to  another  lawn  verging  on  the  shrubberies.  Joan 
and  Nancy  were  employed  here  in  putting  tennis  balls 
into  a  hole  with  the  handles  of  walking  sticks.  Cicely 
rebuked  them,  for,  according  to  his  lights,  the  Squire 
was  a  strict  Sabbatarian. 

"DarHng!"  expostulated  Joan,  in  a  voice  of 
pleading,  "  we  are  not  using  putters  and  golf  balls. 
There  canH  be  any  harm  in  this." 

Cicely  did  not  think  there  was,  and  passed  on 
through  the  shrubbery  walk  to  where  a  raised  path 
skirting  a  stone  wall  afforded  a  view  of  the  road 
along  which  Jim  and  Ronald  Mackenzie  would  pres- 
ently be  driving. 

She  hardly  knew  why  she  had  come.  It  was  cer- 
tainly not  to  watch  for  Jim.  And  if  there  was  any 
idea  in  her  mind  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  Ronald 
Mackenzie,  herself  unobserved  by  him,  so  that  she 
might  by  a  flash  gain  some  insight  into  the  character 
of  a  man  who  had  interested  her,  she  was  probably 
giving  herself  useless  trouble,  for  it  was  not  yet  three 
o'clock  and  the  two  men  were  not  likely  to  arrive 
for  another  half-hour  or  more. 

183 


184     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

But  she  had  no  sooner  taken  her  stand  by  the 
stone  wall  and  looked  down  at  the  road  from  under 
the  shade  of  the  great  beech  which  overhung  it,  than 
Jim's  dog-cart  swung  round  the  corner,  and  Ronald 
Mackenzie,  sitting  by  his  side,  had  looked  up  and 
sent  a  glance  from  his  bold  dark  eyes  right  through 
her.  She  had  not  had  time  to  draw  back;  she  had 
been  fairly  caught.  She  drew  back  now,  and 
coloured  with  annoyance  as  she  pictured  to  herself 
the  figure  she  must  have  presented  to  him,  a  girl 
so  interested  in  his  coming  and  going  that  she  must 
lie  in  wait  for  him,  and  take  up  her  stand  an  hour  or 
so  before  he  might  have  been  expected.  At  any 
rate,  he  should  not  find  her  submissively  waiting  for 
him  when  he  drove  up  to  the  door.  She  would  keep 
out  of  the  way  until  tea-time,  and  he  might  find 
somebody  else  to  entertain  him. 

The  shrubbery  walk,  which  skirted  the  road, 
wound  for  over  a  mile  round  the  park,  and  if  she 
followed  it  she  would  come,  by  way  of  the  kitchen 
gardens  and  stableyard,  to  the  house  again,  and 
could  regain  her  bedroom  unseen,  at  the  cost  of  a 
walk  rather  longer  than  she  would  willingly  have 
undertaken  on  this  hot  afternoon.  But  it  was  the 
only  thing  to  do.  If  she  went  back  by  the  way  she 
had  come,  she  might  meet  Jim  and  his  friend  in  the 
garden,  and  of  course  they  would  think  she  had 
come  on  purpose  to  see  them.  If  she  crossed 
the  park  she  ran  the  risk  of  being  seen.  So  she 
kept  to  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  and  followed  the 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  185 

windings  of  the  path  briskly,  and  in  rather  a  bad 
temper. 

At  a  point  about  half-way  round  the  circle,  the 
dense  shrubbery  widened  into  a  spinney,  and  cut 
through  it  transversely  was  a  broad  grass  ride,  which 
opened  up  a  view  of  the  park  and  the  house.  When 
Cicely  reached  this  point  she  looked  to  her  right,  and 
caught  her  breath  in  her  throat  sharply,  for  she  saw 
Ronald  Mackenzie  striding  down  the  broad  green 
path  towards  her.  He  was  about  fifty  yards  away, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  pretend  she  had  not  seen 
him,  or  to  go  on  without  waiting  for  him  to  catch 
her  up.  Indeed,  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  her 
he  waved  his  hand  and  called  out,  "  I  thought  I 
should  catch  you."  He  then  came  up  with  a  smile 
upon  his  face,  and  no  apparent  intention  of  apolo- 
gising for  his  obvious  pursuit  of  her. 

What  was  the  right  attitude  to  take  up  towards  a 
man  who  behaved  like  that?  Cicely  blushed,  and 
felt  both  surprised  and  annoyed.  But  she  was 
powerless  to  convey  a  hint  of  those  feelings  to  him, 
and  all  he  knew  was  that  she  had  blushed. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  run  away  from  me  like  that," 
he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her  and  looked  her 
straight  in  the  face.  "  I  shan't  do  you  any  harm. 
We  will  go  back  this  way  " ;  and  he  walked  on  at  a 
fairly  smart  rate  by  the  way  she  had  been  going,  and 
left  her  to  adapt  her  pace  to  his,  which  she  did,  with 
the  disgusted  feeling  that  she  was  ambling  along  at 
an  undignified  trot. 


186     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

She  was  aware  that  if  she  opened  her  mouth  she 
would  say  just  the  one  thing  that  she  did  not  want 
to  say,  so  she  kept  it  closed,  but  was  not  saved  by 
so  doing,  because  he  immediately  said  it  for  her. 
"  How  did  I  know  where  to  find  you  ?  Well,  I  guessed 
you  didn't  expect  to  be  spied  under  that  tree,  and 
that  you'd  keep  away  for  a  bit.  I  didn't  want  that, 
because  I  had  come  over  on  purpose  to  see  you.  So 
I  cast  my  eye  round  the  country — I've  an  eye  for 
country — saw  where  you  would  be  likely  to  go  and 
the  place  to  intercept  you.  So  now  you  know  all 
about  it." 

This  was  a  little  too  much.  Cicely  found  her 
tongue.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  dignity,  "  I 
didn't  want  to  know  all  about  it,"  and  then  felt  like 
a  fool. 

"  Then  you  have  something  you  didn't  want,"  he 
replied  coolly.  "  But  we  won't  quarrel ;  there's  no 
time.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  about  you  and 
about  this  place  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  waited  for  an  answer ; 
and  an  answer  had  to  be  given.  She  was  not  quite 
prepared,  or  it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that 
she  hardly  dared,  to  say,  "  No,  and  I  don't  want  to," 
so  she  compromised  weakly  on  "  No." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It  seems  to  me  just  Paradise, 
this  lovely,  peaceful,  luxurious  English  country,  after 
the  places  I've  been  to  and  the  life  I've  led.  And  as 
for  you,  you  pretty  little  pink  and  white  rose,  you're 
the  goddess  that  lives  in  the  heart  of  it.     You're  the 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  187 

prettiest,  most  graceful  creature  on  God's  earth,  and 
you're  in  the  right  setting." 

Cicely  felt  like  a  helpless  rabbit  fascinated  by  a 
snake.  Nothing  that  she  had  ever  learned,  either 
by  direct  precept  from  the  old  starHng,  or  as  the 
result  of  her  own  observation  of  life,  had  prepared 
her  to  cope  with  this.  Outrageous  as  were  his  words 
and  tone,  she  could  only  show  that  she  resented  them 
by  implicitly  accusing  him  of  making  love  to  her; 
and  her  flurried  impulse  was  to  shun  that  danger 

spot. 

She  laughed  nervously.  "You  use  very  flowery 
language;  I  suppose  you  learned  it  in  Tibet,"  she 
said,  and  felt  rather  pleased  with  herself. 

"  One  thing  I  learned  in  Tibet,"  he  answered,  "  if  I 
hadn't  learned  it  before,  was  that  England  is  the  most 
beautiful  country  in  the  world.  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  wouldn't  give  up  all  the  excitement  and  adventure 
of  my  life  to  settle  down  in  a  place  like  Graham's — 
or  like  this." 

Cicely  congratulated  herself  upon  having  turned 
the  conversation.  She  was  ready  to  talk  on  this 
subject.  "  You  wouldn't  care  for  it  very  long,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  stagnation.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
would  give  anything  to  get  out  of  it." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  smile.  "  And  what 
would  you  like  to  do  if  you  could  get  out  of  it?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  should  like  to  travel  for  one  thing,"  she  said. 
"  If  I  were  a  man  I  would.     I  wouldn't  be  content  to 


188     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

settle  down  in  a  comfortable  country  house  to  hunt 
foxes  and  shoot  pheasants  and  partridges  all  my 
life." 

"Like  Graham,  eh?  Well,  perhaps  you  are 
right.  You're  going  to  marry  Graham,  aren't 
you  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  shortly. 

"  He  thinks  you  are,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"  He's  a  good  fellow,  Graham,  but  perhaps  he  takes 
too  much  for  granted,  eh?  But  I  know  you  are  not 
going  to  marry  Graham.  I  only  asked  you  to  see 
what  you  would  say.  You  are  going  to  marry  me, 
my  little  country  flower." 

"  Mr.  Mackenzie !  "  She  put  all  the  outraged 
surprise  into  her  voice  of  which  she  was  capable,  and 
stopped  short  in  the  path. 

He  stopped  too,  and  faced  her.  His  face  was 
firmly  set.  "  I  have  no  time  to  go  gently,"  he  said. 
"  I  ask  straight  out  for  what  I  want,  and  I  want  you. 
Come  now,  don't  play  the  silly  miss.  You've  got 
a  man  to  deal  with.  I've  done  things  already  and 
I'm  going  to  do  more.  You  will  have  a  husband 
you  can  be  proud  of." 

He  was  the  type  of  the  conquering  male  as  he  stood 
before  her,  dark,  lean,  strong  and  bold-eyed.  His 
speech,  touched  with  a  rough  northern  burr,  broke 
down  defences.  He  would  never  woo  gently,  not  if 
he  had  a  year  to  do  it  in.  Men  of  his  stamp  do  not 
ask  their  wives  in  marriage ;  they  take  them. 

Cicely  went  red  and  then  white,  and  looked  round 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  189 

her  helplessly.  "  You  can't  run  away,"  he  said,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak. 

His  silence  was  more  insolently  compelling  than 
any  words  could  have  been.  Her  eyes  were  drawn 
to  his  in  spite  of  herself,  fluttered  a  moment,  and 
rested  there  in  fascinated  terror.  So  the  women  in 
ages  of  violence  and  passion,  once  caught,  sur- 
rendered meekly. 

"  You  are  mine,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  neither  raised 
nor  lowered.  "  I  said  you  should  be  when  I  first  saw 
you.  I'll  take  care  of  you.  And  I'll  take  care  of 
myself  for  your  sake." 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  trembling  violently. 
It  seemed  to  be  her  limbs  that  were  trembling,  not 
she,  and  that  she  could  not  stop  them.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her.  "  There,  there !  "  he  said  sooth- 
ingly. "  Poor  little  bird !  I've  frightened  you.  I 
had  to,  you  know.    But  you're  all  right  now." 

For  answer  she  burst  into  tears,  her  hands  to  her 
face.  He  drew  them  away  gently,  mastering  her 
with  firm  composure.  "It  was  a  shock,  wasn't  it?" 
he  said  in  a  low,  vibrating  monotone.  "  But  it  had 
to  be  done  in  that  way.  Jim  Graham  doesn't  upset 
you  in  that  way,  I'll  be  bound.  But  Jim  Graham 
is  a  rich,  comfortable  vegetable ;  and  I'm  not  exactly 
that.    You  don't  want  to  be  either,  do  you.''  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  drying  her  eyes. 

"  You  want  a  mate  you  can  be  proud  of,"  he  went 
on,  still  soothing  her.  "  Somebody  who  will  do  big 
things,  and  do  them  for  your  sake,  eh.^^    That's  what 


190     THE    SQUIRE*S   DAUGHTER 

I'm  going  to  do  for  you,  little  girl.  I'm  famous 
already,  so  I  find.  But  I'll  be  more  famous  yet, 
and  make  you  famous  too.  You'll  like  that,  won't 
you?  " 

He  spoke  to  her  as  if  she  were  a  little  child.  His 
boasting  did  not  sound  like  boasting  to  her.  His 
strength  and  self-confidence  pushed  aside  all  the 
puny  weapons  with  which  she  might  have  opposed 
him.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  she  did  not  love 
him.  He  had  not  asked  for  her  love;  he  had  asked 
for  herself;  or  rather,  he  had  announced  his  inten- 
tion of  taking  her.  She  was  dominated,  silenced,  and 
he  gave  her  no  chance  to  say  anything,  except  what 
he  meant  her  to  say. 

He  took  his  arms  from  her.  "  We  must  go  back 
now,"  he  said,  "  or  they  will  wonder  what  has  be- 
come of  us."  He  laughed  suddenly.  "  They  were 
a  little  surprised  when  I  ran  away  after  you." 

It  occurred  to  her  that  they  must  have  been  con- 
siderably surprised.  The  thought  added  to  her  con- 
fusion.    "  Oh,  I  can't  go  back  to  them !  "  she  cried. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  soothingly.  "  You  shall  slip 
into  the  house  by  a  back  way.  I  shall  say  I  couldn't 
find  you." 

They  were  walking  along  the  path,  side  by  side. 
His  muscular  hands  were  pendant;  he  had  at- 
tempted no  further  possession  of  her,  had  not  tried 
to  kiss  her.  Perhaps  he  knew  that  a  kiss  would  have 
fired  her  to  revolt,  and  once  revolting  she  would  be 
lost  to  him.     Perhaps  he  was  not  guided  by  policy 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  191 

at  all,  but  by  the  instinctive  touch  of  his  power  over 
men — and  women. 

Cicely  was  beginning  to  recover  her  nerve,  but  her 
thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  She  was  not  angry;  her 
chief  desire  was  to  go  away  by  herself  and  think. 
In  the  meantime  she  wanted  no  further  food  for 
thought.    But  that  was  a  matter  not  in  her  hands. 

"  I'm  going  away  in  a  fortnight,  you  know,"  he 
said.  "  Back  to  Tibet.  I  left  some  things  undone 
there." 

"You  only  came  home  a  month  ago,"  she  said, 
clutching  eagerly  at  a  topic  not  alarmingly  personal. 

"  I  know.  But  I'm  tired  of  it — the  drawing-rooms 
and  the  women.     I  want  to  be  doing.     You  know." 

She  thought  she  did  know.  The  rough  appeal 
thrown  out  in  those  two  words  found  a  way  through 
her  armour,  which  his  insolent  mastery  had  only 
dented  and  bruised.  It  gave  her  a  better  conceit  of 
herself.  This  was  a  big  man,  and  he  recognised 
something  of  his  own  quality  in  her.  At  any  rate, 
she  would  stand  up  to  him.  She  would  not  be  "a 
silly  miss." 

"  Of  course,  you  have  surprised  me  very  much," 
she  said,  with  an  effort  at  even  speech,  which  proba- 
bly came  to  him  as  hurried  prattle.  "  I  can't  say 
what  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  say  at  once.  But 
if  you  will  give  me  time — if  you  will  speak  to  my 
father " 

He  broke  in  on  her.  "  Good  heavens !  "  he  said, 
with  a  laugh.     "  You  don't  think  I've  got  time  for 


192     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

all  that  sort  of  thing,  do  you? — orange  flowers  and 
church  bells  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Don't  you  say  a 
word  to  your  father,  or  any  one  else.    Do  you  hear?  " 

His  roughness  nerved  her.  "  Then  what  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  "  she  asked  boldly. 

"Do?  Why,  come  to  London  and  marry  me,  of 
course.  You've  got  the  pluck.  Or  if  you  haven't, 
you're  not  what  I  thought  you,  and  I  don't  want 
you  at  all.  There's  no  time  to  settle  anything  now, 
and  I'm  off  to-morrow.  If  I  stay  longer,  and  come 
over  here  again  with  Graham,  they  will  suspect 
something.  Meet  me  to-night  out  here — this  very 
spot,  do  you  see?  I'll  get  out  of  the  house  and  be 
over  here  at  two  o'clock.  Then  I'll  tell  you  what 
to  do." 

They  had  come  to  a  little  clearing,  the  entrance  to 
a  strip  of  planted  ground  which  led  to  a  gate  in  the 
walled  kitchen  garden,  and  so  to  the  back  regions  of 
the  house.  She  stood  still  and  faced  him.  "  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  do  that?  "  she  asked,  her  blue 
eyes  looking  straight  into  his. 

He  had  aroused  her  indignant  opposition.  What 
would  he  do  now,  this  amazing  and  masterful  man? 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  an  odd  expression  in 
his  face.  It  was  protecting,  tender,  amused.  "  Lit- 
tle shy  flower !  "  he  said — he  seemed  to  cling  to  that 
not  very  original  metaphor — "  I  mustn't  forget  how 
you  have  been  brought  up,  in  all  this  shelter  and 
luxury,  must  I?  It  is  natural  to  you,  little  girl,  and 
I'll  keep  you  in  it  as  far  as  I  can.     But  you've  got 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  193 

to  remember  what  I  am  too.  You  must  come  out 
of  your  cotton  wool  sometimes.  Life  isn't  all  softness 
and  luxury." 

Food  and  raiment!  What  had  she  been  thinking 
of  all  the  morning?    Her  eyes  fell. 

"  You  can  trust  me,  you  know,"  he  said,  still 
speaking  softly.  "  But  you  believe  in  daring,  don't 
you?     You  must  show  a  little  yourself." 

"  It  isn't  at  all  that  I'm  afraid,"  she  said  weakly. 

"  Of  course  not.  I  know  that,"  he  answered.  "  It 
is  simply  that  you  don't  do  such  things  here."  He 
waved  his  hand  towards  the  corner  of  the  big  house, 
which  could  be  seen  through  the  trees.  "  But  you 
want  to  get  out  of  it,  you  said." 

Did  she  want  to  get  out  of  it?  She  was  tired  of 
the  dull  ease.  She  was  of  the  Clintons,  of  the  women 
who  were  kept  under ;  but  there  were  men  Clintons 
behind  her  too,  men  who  took  the  ease  when  it  came 
to  them,  but  did  not  put  it  in  the  first  place,  men 
of  courage,  men  of  daring.  It  was  the  love  of  adven- 
ture in  her  blood  that  made  her  answer,  "  Perhaps 
I  will  come,"  and  then  try  to  dart  past  him. 

He  put  out  his  arm  to  stop  her.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  walk  six  miles  here  and  back  on  the  chance,"  he 
said  roughly.  But  she  was  equal  to  him  this  time. 
"  If  you  don't  think  it  worth  while  you  need  not 
come,"  she  said.  "  I  won't  promise."  Then  she  was 
gone. 

He  walked  back  slowly  to  the  garden.  Jim  Gra- 
ham was  lying  back  in  a  basket  chair,  dressed  in 


194     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

smart  blue  flannel  and  Russian  leather  boots,  talking 
to  Joan  and  Nancy.  Through  the  open  window  of 
the  library  the  top  of  the  Squire's  head  could  be  seen 
over  the  back  of  an  easy-chair. 

Mackenzie  joined  the  little  group  under  the  lime. 
"  Couldn't  find  her,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  She'll  turn  up  at  tea-time,"  said  Jim  equably. 

The  clear  eyes  of  the  twins  were  fixed  on  Mac- 
kenzie. They  had  run  round  to  the  front  of  the  house 
on  hearing  the  wheels  of  Jim's  cart  on  the  gravel. 
They  wanted  to  see  the  great  man  he  had  brought 
with  him,  and  they  were  not  troubled  with  considera- 
tions of  shyness.  But  the  great  man  had  taken  no 
notice  of  them  at  all,  standing  on  the  gravel  of  the 
drive  staring  at  him. 

He  had  jumped  down  from  the  cart  and  made  off, 
directly,  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Where  is  he  going?  "  asked  the  twins. 

"  He  wants  to  show  Cicely  some  drawings,"  said 
Jim.  "  He  saw  her  in  the  shrubbery.  Want  a  drive 
round  to  the  stables,  twankies  ?  " 

Now  the  twins  devoured  Mackenzie  with  all  their 
eyes.  "  I  am  Joan  Clinton,  and  this  is  my  sister 
Nancy,"  said  Joan.  "  Nobody  ever  introduces  us 
to  anybody  that  comes  here,  so  we  always  introduce 
ourselves.    How  do  you  do?  " 

Mackenzie  seemed  to  wake  up.  He  shook  hands 
with  both  twins.  "  How  do  you  do,  young  ladies," 
he  said  with  a  smile.  "  You  seem  very  much 
alike." 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  195 

"  Not  in  character,"  said  Nancy.  "  Miss  Bird 
says  that  Joan  would  be  a  very  well-behaved  girl  if 
it  were  not  for  me." 

"  I'm  sure  you  are  both  well  behaved,"  said 
Mackenzie.  "  You  look  as  if  you  never  gave  any 
trouble  to  anybody." 

"What  we  look  and  what*  we  are  are  two  very 
different  things,"  said  Joan.  "  Aren't  they, 
Jim.?" 

"  Good  Lord,  I  should  think  they  were,"  said 
Jim.  He  had  been  bustled  off  immediately  after 
luncheon,  and  was  lying  back  in  his  chair  in  an 
attitude  inviting  repose.  He  had  rather  hoped  that 
Mackenzie,  whose  quick  energy  of  mind  and  body 
were  rather  beyond  his  power  to  cope  with,  would 
have  been  off  his  hands  for  half  an  hour  when  he 
had  announced  his  intention  of  going  in  search  of 
Cicely.  He  would  have  liked  to  go  in  search  of 
Cicely  himself,  but  that  was  one  of  the  things  that 
he  did  no  longer.  He  had  nothing  to  do  now  but 
wait  with  what  patience  he  could  until  his  time  came. 
He  had  a  sort  of  undefined  hope  that  Mackenzie 
might  say  something  that  would  advance  him  with 
Cicely,  praise  him  to  her,  cause  her  to  look  upon  him 
with  a  little  refreshment  of  her  favour.  But  he  had 
not  welcomed  the  questions  with  which  the  twins 
had  plied  him  concerning  his  guest. 

"  Jim  wants  to  go  to  sleep,"  said  Nancy.  "  Would 
you  like  to  come  up  into  the  schoolroom,  Mr. 
Mackenzie?    We  have  a  globe  of  the  world." 


196     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  We  can  find  Cicely  if  you  want  to  see  her,"  added 
Joan. 

Mackenzie  laughed  his  rough  laugh.  "  We  won't 
bother  Miss  Clinton,"  he  said.  "  But  I  should  like 
to  see  the  globe  of  the  world." 

So  the  twins  led  him  off  proudly,  chattering.  Jim 
heard  Joan  say,  "  We  have  had  a  bishop  in  our 
schoolroom,  but  we  would  much  rather  have  an  ex- 
plorer," but  by  the  time  they  had  crossed  the  lawn 
he  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

If  he  had  known  it,  it  was  hardly  the  time  for  him 
to  sleep. 

"  If  you're  ill,  go  to  bed ;  if  not,  behave  as  usual," 
was  a  Clinton  maxim  which  accounted  for  Cicely's 
appearance  at  the  tea-table  an  hour  later,  when  she 
would  much  rather  have  remained  in  her  own  room. 
The  effort,  no  small  one,  of  walking  across  the  lawn 
in  full  view  of  the  company  assembled  round  the 
tea-table,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  her  within 
the  last  hour,  braced  her  nerves.  She  was  a  shade 
paler  than  ordinary,  but  otherwise  there  was  nothing 
in  her  appearance  to  arouse  comment.  Mackenzie 
sprang  up  from  his  chair  as  she  approached  and  went 
forward  to  meet  her.  "  I  tried  to  find  you  directly 
I  came,  Miss  Clinton,"  he  said  in  his  loud  voice, 
which  no  course  of  civilisation  would  avail  to  subdue. 
"  I've  brought  those  sketches  I  told  you  about  last 
night." 

Cicely  breathed  relief.  She  had  not  been  told  the 
pretext  upon  which  he  had  started  off  in  pursuit  of 


RONALD    MACKENZIE  197 

her  immediately  upon  his  arrival,  and  had  had 
terrifying  visions  of  a  reception  marked  by  anxious 
and  inquiring  looks.  But  Jim  greeted  her  with  his 
painfully  acquired  air  of  accepted  habit,  and  imme- 
diately, she  was  sitting  between  him  and  Mackenzie, 
looking  at  the  bundle  of  rough  pencil  drawings  put 
into  her  hands,  outlines  of  rugged  peaks,  desolate 
plains,  primitive  hillside  villages,  done  with  abundant 
determination  but  little  skill.  She  Hstened  to  Mac- 
kenzie's explanations  without  speaking,  and  was  re- 
lieved to  hand  over  the  packet  to  the  Squire,  who 
put  on  his  glasses  to  examine  them,  and  drew  the 
conversation  away  from  her. 

Mackenzie  spoke  but  little  to  her  after  that.  He 
dominated  the  conversation,  much  more  so  than  on 
the  previous  evening,  when  there  had  been  some  little 
difficulty  in  extracting  any  account  of  his  exploits 
from  him.  Now  he  was  willing  to  talk  of  them,  and 
he  talked  well,  not  exactly  with  modesty,  but  with 
no  trace  of  boastful  quality,  such  as  would  certainly 
have  aroused  the  prejudices  of  his  listeners  against 
him. 

He  talked  like  a  man  with  whom  the  subject  under 
discussion  was  the  one  subject  in  the  world  that  in- 
terested him.  One  would  have  said  that  he  had 
nothing  else  in  his  mind  but  the  lust  for  strange 
places  to  conquer.  He  appeared  to  be  obsessed  by 
his  life  of  travel,  to  be  able  to  think  of  nothing  else, 
even  during  this  short  interval  in  his  years  of 
adventure,   and  in  this  stay-at-home  English  com- 


198     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

panj  whose  thoughts  were  mostly  bound  up  in  the  few 
acres  around  them. 

Cicely  stole  glances  at  him.  Was  he  acting  a 
carefully  thought  out  plan,  or  had  he  really  forgotten 
her  very  existence  for  the  moment,  while  his  thoughts 
winged  their  way  to  cruel,  dark  places,  whose  secrets 
he  would  wrest  from  them,  the  only  places  in  which 
his  bold,  eager  spirit  could  find  its  home?  He  radi- 
ated power.  She  was  drawn  to  him,  more  than  half 
against  her  will.  He  had  called  to  her  to  share  his 
life  and  his  enterprise.  Should  she  answer  the  call? 
It  was  in  her  mind  that  she  might  do  so. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  claim  her  after  tea ;  but 
when  the  church  bells  began  to  ring  from  across  the 
park,  and  she  had  to  go  to  play  for  the  evening 
service,  he  joined  the  little  party  of  women — the 
Clinton  men  went  to  church  once  on  Sundays,  but 
liked  their  women  to  go  twice — and  sat  opposite  to 
her  in  the  chancel  pew,  sometimes  fixing  her  with 
a  penetrating  look,  sometimes  with  his  head  lowered 
on  his  broad  chest,  thinking  inscrutable  thoughts, 
while  the  dusk  crept  from  raftered  roof  to  stone 
floor,  and  the  cheap  oil  lamps  and  the  glass-pro- 
tected candles  in  the  pulpit  and  reading-desk 
plucked  up  yellow  courage  to  keep  off  the  darkness. 

The  congregation  sang  a  tuneful,  rather  senti- 
mental evening  hymn  in  the  twilight.  They  sang 
fervently,  especially  the  maids  and  men  in  the 
chancel  pews.  Their  minds  were  stirred  to  soothing 
and  vaguely  aspiring  thoughts.     Such  hymns  as  this 


RONALD   MACKENZIE  199 

at  the  close  of  an  evening  service  were  the  pleasantcst 
part  of  the  day's  occupations. 

The  villagers  went  home  to  their  cottages,  talking 
a  little  more  effusively  than  usual.  The  next  morn- 
ing their  work  would  begin  again.  The  party  from 
the  great  house  hurried  home  across  the  park.  The 
sermon  had  been  a  httle  longer  than  usual.  They 
would  barely  have  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Jim  Graham's  dog-cart  came  round  at  half-past 
ten.  The  Squire,  who  had  been  agreeably  aroused 
from  his  contented  but  rather  monotonous  existence 
by  his  unusual  guest,  pressed  them  to  send  it  back 
to  the  stable  for  an  hour.  "  The  women  are  going 
to  bed,"  he  said — they  were  always  expected  to  go 
upstairs  punctually  at  half -past  ten — "  we'll  go  into 
my  room." 

But  Mackenzie  refused  without  giving  Jim  the  op- 
portunity. "  I  have  a  lot  of  work  to  do  to-night," 
he  said.  "  Don't  suppose  I  shall  be  in  bed  much 
before  four ;  and  I  must  leave  early  to-morrow." 

So  farewells  were  said  in  the  big  square  hall.  Mrs. 
Clinton  and  Cicely  were  at  a  side-table  upon  which 
were  rows  of  silver  bedroom  candlesticks,  Mrs. 
CHnton  in  a  black  evening  dress,  her  white,  plump 
neck  and  arms  bare,  Cicely,  sHm  and  graceful,  in 
white.  The  men  stood  between  them  and  the  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  from  which  Dick  was 
dispensing  whisky  and  soda  water;  the  Squire,  big 
and  florid,  with  a  great  expanse  of  white  shirt  front, 
Jim  and  Mackenzie  in  light  overcoats  with  caps  in 


200     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

their  hands.  Servants  carried  bags  across  from 
behind  the  staircase  to  the  open  door,  outside  of 
which  Jim's  horse  was  scraping  the  gravel,  the  bright 
lamps  of  the  cart  shining  on  his  smooth  flanks. 

The  Squire  and  Dick  stood  on  the  stone  steps  as 
the  cart  drove  off^,  and  then  came  back  into  the  hall. 
Mrs.  Clinton  and  Cicely,  their  candles  lighted,  were 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"  Well,  that's  an  interesting  fellow,"  said  the 
Squire  as  the  butler  shut  and  bolted  the  hall  door 
behind  him.  "  We'll  get  him  down  to  shoot  if  he's  in 
England  next  month." 

"  And  see  what  he  can  do,"  added  Dick. 

Cicely  went  upstairs  after  her  mother.  The  Squire 
and  Dick  went  into  the  library,  where  a  servant 
relieved  them  of  their  evening  coats  and  handed 
them  smoking-jackets,  and  the  Squire  a  pair  of 
worked  velvet  slippers. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE    PLUNGE 

When  Cicely  had  allowed  the  maid  who  was  waiting 
for  her  to  unfasten  her  bodice,  she  sent  her  away 
and  locked  the  door  after  her.  During  the  evening 
she  had  sketched  in  her  mind  a  portrait  of  herself 
sitting  by  the  open  window  and  thinking  things  over 
calmly.  It  seemed  to  be  the  thing  to  do  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

But  she  could  not  think  calmly.  She  could  not 
even  command  herself  sufficiently  to  go  on  with  her 
undressing.  The  evening  had  been  one  long  strain 
on  her  nerves,  and  now  she  could  only  throw  herself 
on  her  bed  and  burst  into  tears.  She  had  an  impulse 
to  go  in  to  her  mother  and  tell  her  everything,  and 
perhaps  only  the  fact  that  for  the  moment  her 
physical  strength  would  not  allow  her  to  move  held 
her  back. 

After  a  time  she  became  quieter,  but  did  not  regain 
the  mastery  of  her  brain.  She  seemed  to  be  swayed 
by  feeling  entirely.  The  picture  of  her  mother,  calm 
and  self-contained,  kneeling  at  her  long  nightly  de- 
votions, faded,  and  in  its  place  arose  the  image  of 
the  man  who  had  suddenly  shouldered  his  way  into 
her  life  and  with  rude  hands  torn  away  the  trappings 
of  convention  that  had  swathed  it. 

201 


^02     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

He  attracted  her  strongly.  He  stood  for  a  broad 
freedom,  and  her  revolt  against  the  dependence  in 
which  she  lived  was  pointed  by  his  contempt  for  the 
dull,  easy,  effortless  life  of  the  big  country  house. 
Her  mind  swayed  towards  him  as  she  thought  of 
what  he  had  to  offer  her  in  exchange — adventure  in 
unknown  lands;  glory,  perhaps  not  wholly  reflected, 
for  there  had  been  women  explorers  before,  and  her 
strong,  healthy  youth  made  her  the  physical  equal 
of  any  of  them;  comradeship  in  place  of  subjection. 
She  weighed  none  of  these  things  consciously;  she 
simply  desired  them. 

There  came  to  her  the  echo  of  her  brother's  speech 
as  she  had  come  up  the  stairs :  "  And  let  us  see  what 
he  can  do."  He  stood  before  her  in  his  rugged 
strength,  not  very  well  dressed,  his  greying  head 
held  upright,  his  nostrils  slightly  dilated,  his  keen 
eyes  looking  out  on  the  world  without  a  trace  of 
self-consciousness;  and  beside  him  stood  Dick  in  his 
smart  clothes  and  his  smoothed  down  hair,  coolly 
ignoring  all  the  big  things  the  man  had  done,  and 
proposing  to  hold  over  his  opinion  of  him  till  he  saw 
whether  he  could  snap  off  a  gun  quickly  enough  to 
'bring  down  a  high  pheasant  or  a  driven  partridge. 
If  he  could  pass  that  test  he  would  be  accepted 
without  further  question  as  "  a  good  fellow."  His 
other  achievements,  or  perhaps  more  accurately  the 
kind  of  renown  they  had  brought  him,  would  be  set 
against  his  lack  of  the  ordinary  gentleman's  up- 
bringing.   If  he  could  not,  he  would  still  be  something 


THE    PLUNGE  203 

of  an  outsider  though  all  the  world  should  acclaim 
him.  Dick's  careless  speech — she  called  it  stupid — 
affected  her  strangely.  It  hfted  her  suitor  out  of  the 
ruck,  and  made  him  bulk  bigger. 

She  got  up  from  her  bed  and  took  her  seat  by  the 
open  window,  according  to  precedent.  She  had  seen 
herself,  during  the  evening,  sitting  there  looking  out 
on  to  the  moonlit  garden,  asking  herself  quietly, 
"What  am  I  going  to  do?  "  weighing  the  pros  and 
cons,  stiffening  her  mind,  and  her  courage.  And 
she  tried  now  to  come  to  a  decision,  but  could  not 
come  anywhere  near  to  laying  the  foundation  of  one. 
She  had  not  the  least  idea  what  she  was  going  to 
do,  nor  could  she  even  discover  w^hat  she  wanted 
to  do. 

She  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room,  but  that 
did  not  help  her.  She  knelt  down  and  said  her 
prayers  out  of  a  little  well-worn  book  of  devotions, 
and  made  them  long  ones.  But  it  was  nothing 
more  than  repeating  words  and  phrases  whose 
meaning  slipped  away  from  her.  She  prayed  in  her 
own  words  for  guidance,  but  none  came.  There  ex- 
isted only  the  tumult  of  feeling. 

She  heard  her  father  and  brother  come  up  to  bed 
and  held  her  breath  in  momentary  terror,  then 
breathed  relief  at  the  thought  that  if  they  should, 
unaccountably,  break  into  her  room,  which  they  were 
not  in  the  least  likely  to  do,  they  could  not  know 
what  was  happening  to  her,  or  make  her  tell  them. 
They  went  along  the  corridor  talking  loudly.     She 


204     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

had  often  been  disturbed  from  her  first  sleep  by  the 
noise  the  men  made  coming  up  to  bed.  She  heard 
a  sentence  from  her  father  as  they  passed  her  door. 
"  They  would  have  to  turn  out  anyhow  if  anything 
happened  to  me." 

Dick's  answer  was  inaudible,  but  she  knew  quite 
well  what  they  were  discussing.  It  had  been  dis- 
cussed before  her  mother  and  herself,  and  even  the 
twins  and  Miss  Bird,  though  not  before  the  servants, 
during  the  last  few  days.  Lord  and  Lady  Alistair 
MacLeod,  she  a  newly  wed  American,  had  motored 
through  Kencote,  lunched  at  the  inn  and  fallen  in 
love  with  the  dower-house.  Lady  Alistair — he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it — had  made  an  offer 
through  the  Squire's  agent  for  a  lease  of  the  house, 
at  a  rental  about  four  times  its  market  value.  The 
Squire  did  not  want  the  money,  but  business  was 
business.  And  the  MacLeods  would  be  "  nice  people 
to  have  about  the  place."  All  that  stood  in  the 
way  was  Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura.  They  could 
not  be  turned  out  unless  they  were  willing  to  go, 
but  the  Squire  knew  very  well  that  they  would  go 
if  he  told  them  to.  There  was  a  nice  little  house 
in  the  village  which  would  be  the  very  thing  for  them 
if  he  decided  to  accept  the  tempting  offer.  He  would 
do  it  up  for  them.  After  all,  the  dower-house  was 
much  too  large  and  there  were  only  two  of  them  left. 
So  it  had  been  discussed  whether  Aunt  Ellen,  at  the 
age  of  ninety,  and  Aunt  Laura,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
two,  should  be  notified  that  the  house  in  which  they 


THE    PLUNGE  205 

had  spent  the  last  forty  years  of  their  Hves,  and  in 
which  their  four  sisters  had  died,  was  wanted  for 
strangers. 

That  was  not  the  only  thing  that  had  been  dis- 
cussed. The  question  of  what  would  be  done  in 
various  departments  of  family  and  estate  business 
when  the  Squire  should  have  passed  away — his 
prospective  demise  being  always  referred  to  by  the 
phrase,  "  if  anything  should  happen  to  me  " — was 
never  shirked  in  the  least ;  and  Dick,  who  would 
reign  as  Squire  in  his  stead,  until  the  far  off  day 
when  something  should  happen  to  him,  took  his  part 
in  the  discussion  as  a  matter  of  course.  These  things 
were  and  would  be ;  there  was  no  sense  in  shutting 
one's  eyes  to  them.  And  one  of  the  things  that 
would  take  place  upon  that  happening  was  that  Mrs. 
Clinton,  and  Cicely,  if  she  were  not  married,  and  the 
twins,  would  no  longer  have  their  home  at  Kencote, 
unless  Dick  should  be  unmarried  and  should  invite 
them  to  go  on  living  in  his  house.  He  would  have 
no  legal  right  to  turn  Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura 
out  of  the  dower-house,  if  they  still  remained  alive, 
but  it  had  been  settled  ever  since  the  last  death 
amongst  the  sisters  that  they  would  make  way.  It 
would  only  be  reasonable,  and  was  taken  for 
granted. 

And  now,  as  it  seemed,  her  father  and  brother  had 
made  up  their  minds  to  exercise  pressure — so  little 
would  be  needed — to  turn  out  the  poor  old  ladies, 
not  for  the  sake  of  those  who  might  have  a  claim 


206     THE    SQUIRE^S   DAUGHTER 

on  their  consideration,  but  for  strangers  who  would 
pay  handsomely  and  would  be  nice  people  to  have 
about  the  place.  Cicely  burned  with  anger  as  she 
thought  of  it. 

•  •••••• 

Two  o'clock  struck  from  the  clock  in  the  stable 
turret.  Cicely  opened  her  door  softly,  crept  along 
the  corridor  and  through  a  baize  door  leading  to  a 
staircase  away  from  the  bedrooms  of  the  house.  At 
the  foot  of  it  was  a  door  opening  into  the  garden, 
which  she  was  prepared  to  unlock  and  unbolt  with 
infinite  care  to  avoid  noise.  But  the  carelessness 
of  a  servant  had  destroyed  the  need  of  such  caution. 
The  door  was  unguarded,  and  with  an  unpleasant 
little  shock  she  opened  it  and  went  out. 

The  night  was  warm,  and  the  lawns  and  trees  and 
shrubs  of  the  garden  lay  in  bright  moonlight.  She 
hurried,  wrapped  in  a  dark  cloak,  to  the  place  from 
which  she  had  fled  from  Mackenzie  in  the  afternoon. 
She  felt  an  impulse  of  shrinking  as  she  saw  his  tall 
figure  striding  up  and  down  on  the  grass,  but  she 
put  it  away  from  her  and  went  forward  to  meet 
him. 

He  gave  a  low  cry  as  he  turned  and  saw  her.  "  My 
brave  little  girl !  "  he  said,  and  laid  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  for  a  moment,  and  looked  into  her  face. 
He  attempted  no  further  love-making;  his  tact 
seemed  equal  to  his  daring.  "  We  have  come  here 
to  talk,"  he  said.  "When  we  have  made  our  ar- 
rangements you  shall  go  straight  back.     I  wouldn't 


THE    PLUNGE  207 

have  asked  you  to  come  out  here  Hke  this  if  there 
had  been  any  other  way." 

She  felt  grateful.  Her  self-respect  was  safe  with 
him.     He  understood  her. 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  he  asked,  and  she 
answered,  "  Yes." 

A  light  sprang  into  his  eyes.  "  My  brave  little 
queen  of  girls !  "  he  said,  but  held  himself  back  from 
her. 

"  What  time  can  you  get  out  of  the  house  without 
being  missed  for  an  hour  or  two.^^  "  he  asked. 

She  stood  up  straight  and  made  a  slight  gesture 
as  if  brushing  something  away,  and  thenceforward 
answered  him  in  as  matter-of-fact  a  way  as  he  ques- 
tioned her. 

"  In  the  afternoon,  after  lunch,"  she  said. 

"  Very  well.  There  is  a  train  from  Bathgate  at 
four  o'clock.     Can  you  walk  as  far  as  that?  " 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  You  can't  go  from  here,  and  you  can't  drive. 
So  you  must  walk.  Is  there  any  chance  of  your 
being  recognised  at  Bathgate?  " 

"  I  am  very  likely  to  be  recognised." 

He  thought  for  a  moment.  "Well,  it  can't  be 
helped,"  he  said.  "  If  there  is  any  one  in  the  train 
you  know  you  must  say  you  are  going  up  to  see 
Mrs.  Walter  Clinton.  Graham  has  told  me  all  about 
her  and  your  brother." 

"  I  shan't  be  able  to  take  any  luggage  with  me," 
she  said. 


208     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  No.  That  is  a  little  awkward.  We  must  trust 
to  chance.  Luck  sides  with  boldness.  You  can 
buy  what  you  want  in  London.  I  have  plenty  of 
money,  and  nothing  will  please  me  better  than  to 
spend  it  on  you,  little  girl."  His  tone  and  his  eyes 
became  tender  for  a  moment.  "  I  shall  be  on  the 
platform  in  London  to  meet  you,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
be  surprised  to  see  you  there  until  you  tell  me  there 
is  nobody  to  fear.  I  hate  all  this  scheming,  but  it 
can't  be  helped.  We  must  get  a  start,  and  in  two 
days  we  shall  be  married.  Don't  leave  any  word. 
You  can  write  from  London  to  say  you  are  going  to 
marry  me.  I'll  do  the  rest  when  we  are  man  and 
wife." 

Cicely's  eyes  dropped  as  she  asked,  "  Where  shall 
I  be  till— till " 

"  Till  we're  married .?  My  little  girl !  It  won't 
be  very  long.  There  is  a  good  woman  I  know.  I'll 
take  you  there  and  she  will  look  after  you.  I  shall 
be  near.  Leave  it  all  to  me  and  don't  worry. 
Have  you  got  money  for  your  journey.'^  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  enough." 

"  Very  well.  Now  go  back,  and  think  of  me  bless- 
ing the  ground  you  walk  on.  You're  so  sweet,  and 
you're  so  brave.  You're  the  wife  for  me.  Will  you 
give  me  one  kiss  ?  " 

She  turned  her  head  quickly.  "  No,"  he  said  at 
once.  "  I  won't  ask  for  it ;  not  till  you  are  mine 
altogether." 

But  she  put  up  her  face  to  him  in  the  moonlight. 


THE    PLUNGE  209 

"  Tm  yours  now,"  she  said.  "  I  have  given  myself 
to  you,"  and  he  kissed  her,  restraining  his  roughness, 
turning  away  immediately  without  another  word  to 
stride  down  the  grass  path  into  the  darkness  of  the 
trees. 

Cicely  looked  after  him  for  an  instant  and  then 
went  back  to  the  house  and  crept  up  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER   XV 

BLOOMSBURY 

Mackenzie  met  her  at  the  London  terminus.  She 
had  seen  no  one  she  knew  either  at  the  station  at 
Bathgate  or  in  the  train.  She  was  well  dressed,  in 
a  tailor-made  coat  and  skirt  and  a  pretty  hat.  She 
got  out  of  a  first-class  carriage  and  looked  like  a 
young  woman  of  some  social  importance,  travelling 
alone  for  once  in  a  way,  but  not  likely  to  be  allowed 
to  go  about  London  alone  when  she  reached  the  end 
of  her  journey.  She  was  quite  composed  as  she  saw 
Mackenzie's  tall  figure  coming  towards  her,  and 
shook  hands  with  him  as  if  he  were  a  mere  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  I  have  seen  nobody  I  know,"  she  said,  and  then 
immediately  added,  "  I  must  send  a  telegram  to  my 
mother.  I  can't  leave  her  in  anxiety  for  a  whole 
night." 

He  frowned,  but  not  at  her.  "  You  can't  do  that," 
he  said,  "you  don't  want  the  post-office  people  to 
know." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that.  I  will  say  *  Have  come 
up  to  see  Muriel.  Writing  to-night.'  It  isn't  true, 
but  I  will  tell  them  afterwards  why  I  did  it." 

"Will  that  satisfy  them?" 

"  I  am  deceiving  them  anyhow." 

810 


BLOOMSBURY         ^11 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  Will  they  think  it  all 
i-igl^t — your  coming  up  to  your  sister-in-law?" 

"  No,  they  will  be  very  much  surprised.  But  the 
post-office  people  will  not  gather  anything." 

"  They  will  wire  at  once  to  your  brother.  You 
had  much  better  leave  it  till  to-morrow." 

"  No,  I  can't  do  that,"  she  said.  "  I  will  wire  just 
before  eight  o'clock.  Then  a  return  wire  will  not  go 
through  before  the  morning." 

"  Yours  might  not  get  through  to-night." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  will.  They  would  take  it  up  to  the 
house  whatever  time  it  came." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  Now  come  along,"  and  he 
hailed  a  hansom. 

"  Please  don't  think  me  tiresome,"  she  said,  when 
they  were  in  the  cab,  "  but  there  is  another  thing  I 
must  do.  I  must  write  to  my  mother  so  that  she 
gets    my    letter    the    very    first    thing    to-morrow 

morning." 

He  gave  an  exclamation  of  impatience.  "You 
can't  do  that,"  he  said  again.  "  The  country  mails 
have  already  gone." 

"  I  can  send  a  letter  by  train  to  Bathgate.  I  will 
send  it  to  the  hotel  there  with  a  message  that  it  is 
to  be  taken  over  to  Kencote  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

"  You  are  very  resourceful.  It  may  give  them 
time  to  get  on  to  our  track,  before  we  are  married." 

"  I  have  promised  to  marry  you,"  she  said  simply. 
It  was  she  who  now  seemed  bold,  and  not  he. 


2ia     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  could  get  here  in  time,"  he 
said  grudgingly.  "  Graham  only  knows  the  address 
of  my  club,  and  they  don't  know  there  where  I  live." 
He  brightened  up  again.  "  Very  well,  my  queen," 
he  said,  smiling  down  at  her.  "  You  shall  do  what 
you  like.  Write  your  letter — let  it  be  a  short  one — 
when  you  get  in,  and  we  will  send  that  and  the  wire 
when  we  go  out  to  dinner." 

They  drove  to  a  dingy-looking  house  in  one  of  the 
smaller  squares  of  Bloomsbury.  During  the  short 
journey  he  became  almost  boisterous.  All  the 
misgivings  that  had  assailed  her  since  they  had  last 
parted,  the  alternate  fits  of  courage  and  of  frightened 
shrinking,  had  passed  him  by.  This  was  quite 
plain,  and  she  was  right  in  attributing  his  mood 
partly  to  his  joy  in  having  won  her,  partly  to  his  love 
of  adventure.  It  was  an  added  pleasure  to  him  to 
surmount  obstacles  in  winning  her.  If  his  wooing 
had  run  the  ordinary  course,  the  reason  for  half  his 
jubilation  would  have  disappeared.  She  felt  his 
strength,  and,  woman-like,  relinquished  her  own 
doubts  and  swayed  to  his  mood. 

"  You  have  begun  your  life  of  adventure,  little 
girl,"  he  said,  imprisoning  her  slender  hand  in  his 
great  muscular  one,  and  looking  down  at  her  with 
pride  in  his  eyes.  She  had  an  impulse  of  exhilara- 
tion, and  smiled  back  at  him. 

The  rooms  to  which  he  took  her,  escorted  by  a 
middle-aged  Scotswoman  with  a  grim  face  and  a 
silent  tongue,  were  on  the  first  floor — a  big  sitting- 


BLOOMSBURY  213 

room,  clean,  but,  to  her  eyes,  inexpressibly  dingy 
and  ill-furnished,  and  a  bedroom  behind  folding 
doors. 

"  Mrs.  Fletcher  will  give  you  your  breakfast  here," 
he  said,  "  but  we  will  lunch  and  dine  out.  We  will 
go  out  now  and  shop  when  you  are  ready." 

She  went  into  the  bedroom  and  stood  by  the  win- 
dow. Fright  had  seized  her  again.  What  was  she 
doing  here?  The  woman  who  had  come  from  her 
dark,  downstairs  dwelling-place  to  lead  the  way  to 
these  dreadful  rooms,  had  given  her  one  glance  but 
spoken  no  word.  What  must  she  think  of  her?  She 
could  hear  her  replying  in  low  monosyllables  to  Mac- 
kenzie's loud  instructions,  through  the  folding 
doors. 

Again  the  assurance  and  strength  and  determina- 
tion which  he  exhaled  came  to  her  aid.  She  had 
taken  the  great  step,  and  must  not  shrink  from 
the  consequences.  He  would  look  after  her.  She 
washed  her  hands  and  face — no  hot  water  had  been 
brought  to  her — and  went  back  to  the  sitting-room. 
"I  am  hoping  you  will  be  comfortable  here,  miss," 
the  woman  said  to  her.  "  You  must  ask  for  any- 
thing you  want." 

She  did  not  smile,  but  her  tone  was  respectful, 
and  she  looked  at  Cicely  with  eyes  not  unfriendly. 
And,  after  all,  the  rooms  were  clean — for  London. 

Mackenzie  took  her  to  a  big  shop  in  Holborn  and 
stayed  outside  while  she  made  her  purchases.  She 
had  not  dared  to  bring  with  her  even  a  small  hand- 


^14     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

bag,  and  she  had  to  buy  paper  on  which  to  write  her 
letter  to  her  mother. 

"  I  lived  in  Mrs.  Fletcher's  rooms  before  I  w^ent  to 
Tibet,"  Mackenzie  said  as  they  went  back  to  the 
house.  "  I  tried  to  get  them  when  I  came  back — 
but  no  such  luck.  Fortunately  they  fell  vacant  on 
Saturday.  We'll  keep  them  on  for  a  bit  after  we're 
married.  Must  make  ourselves  comfortable,  you 
know." 

She  stole  a  glance  at  him.  His  face  was  beaming. 
She  had  thought  he  had  taken  her  to  that  dingy, 
unknown  quarter  as  a  temporary  precaution.  Would 
he  really  expect  her  to  make  her  home  in  such  a 
place? 

She  wrote  her  letter  to  her  mother  at  the  table 
in  the  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Fletcher  had  "  rought  her 
up  a  penny  bottle  of  ink  and  a  pen  with  a  J  nib 
suflPering  from  age.  Macken::ie  walked  about  the 
room  as  she  wrote,  and  it  was  difficult  for  her  to 
collect  her  thoughts.  She  gave  him  the  note  to  read, 
with  a  pretty  gesture  of  confidence.  It  was  very 
short. 

"  My  own  darling  Mother, — I  have  not  come  to 
London  to  see  Muriel,  but  to  marry  Ronald  Mac- 
kenzie. I  said  what  I  did  in  my  telegram  because  of 
the  post-office.  I  am  very  happy,  and  will  write 
you  a  long  letter  directly  we  are  married. — Always 
your  very  loving  daughter, 

"  Cicely." 


BLOOMSBURY  215 

"  Brave   girl ! "    he    said    as    he    returned    it    to 

her. 

She  gave  a  little  sob.  "  I  wish  I  had  not  had  to 
go  away  from  her  like  that,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  cry,  little  girl,"  he  said  kindly.  "  It  was 
the  only  way." 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  sealed  up  the  note.  She 
had  wondered  more  than  once  since  he  had  carried 
her  off  her  feet  why  it  was  the  only  way. 

They  carried  through  the  business  of  the  letter 
and  the  telegram  and  drove  to  a  little  French 
restaurant  in  Soho  to  dine.  The  upstairs  room  was 
full  of  men  and  a  few  women,  some  French,  more 
English.  Everybody  stared  at  her  as  she  entered, 
and  she  blushed  hotly.  And  some  of  them  recog- 
nised Mackenzie  and  whispered  his  name.  The  men 
were  mostly  journahsts,  of  the  more  literary  sort, 
one  or  two  of  them  men  of  note,  if  she  had  known 
it.  But  to  her  they  looked  no  better  than  the  class 
she  would  have  labelled  vaguely  as  "  people  in  shops." 
They  were  as  different  as  possible  from  her  brothers 
and  her  brothers'  friends,  sleek,  well-dressed  men  with 
appropriate  clothes  for  every  occasion,  and  a  uni- 
form for  the  serious  observance  of  dinner  which  she 
had  never  imagined  a  man  without,  except  on  an 
unavoidable  emergency.  She  had  never  once  in  her 
life  dined  in  the  same  frock  as  she  had  worn  during 
the  day  and  hardly  ever  in  the  company  of  men  in 
morning  clothes. 

This  cheap  restaurant,  where  the  food  and  cooking 


^16     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

were  good  but  the  appointments  meagre,  struck  her 
as  strangely  as  if  she  had  been  made  to  eat  in  a 
kitchen.  That  it  did  not  strike  Mackenzie  in  that 
way  was  plain  from  his  satisfaction  at  having  intro- 
duced her  to  it.  "  Just  as  good  food  here  as  at  the 
Carlton  or  the  Savoy,"  he  said  inaccurately,  "  at 
about  a  quarter  of  the  price;  and  no  fuss  in  dress- 
ing-up !  " 

She  enjoyed  it  rather,  after  a  time.  There  was  a 
sense  of  adventure  in  dining  in  such  a  place,  even 
in  dining  where  nobody  had  thought  of  dressing, 
although  dressing  for  dinner  was  not  one  of  the  con- 
ventions she  had  wished  to  run  away  from;  it  was 
merely  a  habit  of  cleanliness  and  comfort.  Mac- 
kenzie talked  to  her  incessantly  in  a  low  voice — they 
were  sitting  at  a  little  table  in  a  corner,  rather  apart 
from  the  rest.  He  talked  of  his  travels,  and  fas- 
cinated her ;  and  every  now  and  then,  when  he  seemed 
furthest  away,  his  face  would  suddenly  soften  and 
he  would  put  in  a  word  of  encouragement  or  grati- 
tude to  her.  She  felt  proud  of  having  the  power 
to  make  such  a  man  happy.  They  were  comrades, 
and  she  wanted  to  share  his  life.  At  present  it 
seemed  to  be  enough  for  him  to  talk  to  her.  He  had 
not  as  yet  made  any  demand  on  her  for  a  return  of 
confidence.  In  fact,  she  had  scarcely  spoken  a  word 
to  him,  except  in  answer  to  speech  of  his.  He  had 
won  her  and  seemed  now  to  take  her  presence  for 
granted.  He  had  not  even  told  her  what  arrange- 
ments he  had  made  for  their  marriage,  or  where  it 


BLOOMSBURY  217 

was  to  be;  nor  had  he  alluded  in  any  way  to  the 
course  of  their  future  life  or  travels,  except  in  the 
matter  of  Mrs.  Fletcher's  room  in  Bloomsbury. 

"When  are  we  going  to  Tibet  again?"  She 
asked  him  the  question  point  blank,  as  they  were 
drinking  their  coffee,  and  Mackenzie  was  smoking 
a  big  briar  pipe  filled  with  strong  tobacoo. 

He  stared  at  her  in  a  moment's  silence.  Then  he 
laughed.  "  Tibet !  "  he  echoed.  "  Oh,  I  think  now 
I  shan't  be  going  to  Tibet  for  some  months.  But  I 
shall  be  taking  you  abroad  somewhere  before  then. 
However,  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  talk  of  all 
that."     Then  he  changed  the  subject. 

He  drove  her  back  to  her  rooms  and  went  upstairs 
with  her.  It  was  about  half-past  nine  o'clock.  "  I 
have  to  go  and  meet  a  man  at  the  Athenaeum  at  ten," 
he  said.  "  Hang  it !  But  I  will  stay  with  you  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I  dare  say  you  won't  be  sorry 
to  turn  in  early." 

He  sat  himself  down  in  a  shabby  armchair  on  one 
side  of  the  fireless  grate.  He  was  still  smoking  his 
big  pipe.     Cicely  stood  by  the  table. 

He  looked  up  at  her.  "  Take  off  your  hat,"  he 
said,  "  I  want  to  see  your  beautiful  hair.  It  was  the 
first  thing  I  noticed  about  you." 

She  obeyed,  with  a  blush.  He  smiled  his  approval. 
"  Those  soft  waves,"  he  said,  "  and  the  gold  in  it  1 
You  are  a  beautiful  girl,  my  dear.  I  can  tell  you  I 
shall  be  very  proud  of  you.  I  shall  want  to  show 
you  about  everywhere." 


^18     THE    SQUIRE*S   DAUGHTER 

He  hitched  his  chair  towards  her  and  took  hold  of 
her  hand.  "  Do  you  think  you  are  going  to  love  me 
a  little  bit  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  blushed  again,  and  looked  down.  Then  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  "I  don't  think  you  know 
quite  what  you  have  made  me  do,"  she  said. 

He  dropped  her  hand.  "Do  you  regret  it?"  he 
asked  sharply. 

She  did  not  answer  his  question,  but  her  eyes  still 
held  his.  "  I  have  never  been  away  from  home  in 
my  life,"  she  said,  "  without  my  father  or  mother. 
Now  I  have  left  them  without  a  word,  to  come  to 
you.  You  seem  to  take  that  quite  as  a  matter  of 
course." 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  although  she  looked 
at  him  steadily.  He  sprang  up  from  his  chair  and 
put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  My  poor  little  girl !  " 
he  said,  "  you  feel  it.  Of  course  you  feel  it.  You've 
behaved  like  a  heroine,  but  you've  had  to  screw  up 
your  courage.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  of  all  that. 
That  is  why  I  haven't  said  anything  about  it.  You 
mustn't  break  down." 

But  she  had  broken  down,  and  she  wept  freely, 
while  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  comforted  her 
as  he  might  have  comforted  a  child.  Presently  her 
sobbing  ceased.  "  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she 
said.  "  But  you  won't  keep  me  away  from  my  own 
people,  will  you — after — after " 

"After  we  are  married?  God  bless  me,  no.  And 
they  won't  be   angry  with  you — at  least,  not   for 


BLOOMS  BURY  219 

long.  Don't  fear  that.  Leave  it  all  to  me.  We 
shall  be  married  to-morrow.  I've  arranged  every- 
thing." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  a  word  about  that,"  she 
said  forlornly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  a  word  until  to-morrow 
came,"  he  said.     "  You  are  not  to  brood." 

"  You  mean  to  rush  me  into  everything,"  she  said. 
"  If  I  am  to  be  the  companion  to  you  that  I  want  to 
be,  you  ought  to  take  me  into  your  confidence." 

"  Why,  there !  "  he  said,  '*  I  believe  I  ought. 
You're  brave.  You're  not  like  other  girls.  You  can 
imagine  that  I  have  had  a  busy  day.  I  have  a 
special  license,  signed  by  no  less  a  person  than  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Think  of  that !  And 
we  are  going  to  be  married  in  a  church.  I  knew 
you  would  like  that ;  and  I  like  it  better  too.  You 
see  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  all  the  time.  Now 
you  mustn't  worry  any  more."  He  patted  her  hand. 
"  Go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  sleep.  I'll  come  round 
at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  and  we're  to  be 
married  at  eleven.  Then  a  new  life  begins,  and  by 
the  Lord  I'll  make  it  a  happy  one  for  you.  Come, 
give  me  a  smile  before  I  go." 

She  had  no  difficulty  in  doing  that  now.  He  took 
her  chin  in  his  fingers,  turned  her  face  up  to  his 
and  looked  into  her  eyes  earnestly.  Then  he  left 
her. 

She  had  finished  her  breakfast,  which  had  been 
cleared  away,  when  he  came  in  to  her  the  next  morn- 


220     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

ing.  She  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  empty  grate 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  she  looked  pale. 

Mackenzie  had  on  a  frock  coat,  and  laid  a  new 
silk  hat  and  a  new  pair  of  gloves  on  the  table  as  he 
greeted  her  with  unsentimental  cheerfulness. 

"Will  you  sit  down?"  she  said,  regarding  him 
with  serious  eyes.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  some 
questions." 

He  threw  a  shrewd  glance  at  her.  "  Ask  away," 
he  said  in  the  same  loud,  cheerful  tone,  and  took  his 
seat  opposite  to  her,  carefully  disposing  of  the  skirts 
of  his  coat,  which  looked  too  big  even  for  his  big 
frame. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  know  exactly  what  my  life  is  to  be  if  I 
marry  you." 

"  If  you  marry  me  !  "  he  took  up  her  words.  "  You 
are  going  to  marry  me." 

"You  said  something  last  night,"  she  went  on, 
"  which  I  didn't  quite  understand  at  the  time ;  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  you  meant  me  to.  Are  you  going 
to  take  me  with  you  to  Tibet,  and  on  your  other 
journeys,  or  do  you  want  to  leave  me  behind — here?  " 
There  was  a  hint  of  the  distaste  she  felt  for  her  sur- 
roundings in  the  slight  gesture  that  accompanied  the 
last  word.  But  she  looked  at  him  out  of  clear,  blue, 
uncompromising  eyes. 

He  did  not  return  her  look.  "  Here?  "  he  echoed, 
looking  round  him  with  some  wonder.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  this?  " 


BLOOMSBURY  221 

"  Then  you  do  mean  to  leave  me  here." 

"  Look  here,  my  dear,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
now.  "  I  am  not  going  to  take  you  to  Tibet,  or  on 
any  of  my  big  journeys.  I  never  had  the  slightest 
intention  of  doing  so,  and  never  meant  you  to  think 
I  had.  A  pretty  tiling  if  I  were  to  risk  the  life  of 
the  one  most  precious  to  me,  as  well  as  my  own,  in 
such  journeys  as  I  take!  " 

"Then  what  about  me?"  asked  Cicely.  "What 
am  I  to  do  while  you  are  away,  risking  your  own 
life,  as  you  say,  and  away  perhaps  for  two  or  three 
years  together?  " 

"Would  you  be  very  anxious  for  me?  "  he  asked 
her,  with  a  tender  look,  but  she  brushed  the  question 
aside  impatiently. 

"  I  am  to  live  alone,  while  you  go  away,"  she  said, 
"  live  just  as  dull  a  life  as  I  did  before,  only  away 
from  my  own  people,  and  without  anything  that 
made  my  life  pleasant  in  spite  of  its  dulness.  Is  that 
what  you  are  offering  me?  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  trying  to  soothe  her.  "  I  want 
you  to  live  in  the  sweetest  little  country  place. 
We'll  find  one  together.  You  needn't  stay  here  a 
minute  longer  than  you  want  to,  though  when  we 
are  in  London  together  it  will  be  convenient.  I  want 
to  think  of  you  amongst  your  roses,  f-nd  to  come 
back  to  you  and  forget  all  the  loneliness  and  hard- 
ships. I  want  a  home,  and  you  in  it,  the  sweetest 
wife  ever  a  man  had." 

"  I  don't  want  that,"  she  said  at  once.     "  You  are 


222     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

offering  me  nothing  that  I  didn't  have  before,  and  I 
left  it  all  to  come  to  you — to  share  the  hardships 
and — and — I  would  take  away  the  loneliness." 

"  You  are  making  too  much  of  my  big  journeys," 
he  broke  in  on  her  eagerly.  "  That  is  the  trouble. 
Now  listen  to  me.  I  shall  be  starting  for  Tibet  in 
March,  and " 

"  Did  you  know  that  when  you  told  me  you  were 
going  in  a  fortnight  .^^  "  she  interrupted  him. 

"  Let  me  finish,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  hand.  "  It 
is  settled  now  that  I  am  going  to  Tibet  in  March, 
and  I  shan't  be  away  for  more  than  a  year.  Until 
then  we  will  travel  together.  I  want  to  go  to 
Switzerland  almost  directly  to  test  some  instruments. 
You  will  come  with  me,  and  you  can  learn  to  climb. 
I  don't  mind  that  sort  of  hardship  for  you.  At  the 
end  of  October  we  will  go  to  America.  I  hadn't 
meant  to  go,  but  I  want  money  now — for  you — and 
I  can  get  it  there.  That's  business ;  and  for 
pleasure  we  will  go  anywhere  you  like — Spain, 
Algiers,  Russia — Riviera,  if  you  like,  though  I  don't 
care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  When  I  go  to  Tibet  I'll 
leave  you  as  mistress  of  a  little  house  that  you  may 
be  proud  of,  and  you'll  wait  for  me  there.  When  I 
get  back  we'll  go  about  together  again,  and  as  far  as 
I  can  see  I  shan't  have  another  big  job  to  tackle  for 
some  time  after  that — a  year,  perhaps  two  years, 
perhaps  more." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  thinking.  "  Come 
now,"  he  said,  "  that's  not  stagnation.    Is  it.''  " 


BLOOMSBURY  223 

"  No,"  she  said  unwillingly.  "  But  it  isn't  what  I 
came  to  you  for."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "  You 
know  it  isn't  what  I  came  to  you  for." 

His  face  grew  a  little  red.  "  You  came  to  me,"  he 
said  in  a  slower,  deeper  voice,  looking  her  straight 
in  the  eyes,  "  because  I  wanted  you.  I  want  you 
now  and  I  mean  to  have  you.  I  want  you  as  a  wife. 
I  will  keep  absolutely  true  to  you.  You  will  be  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  to  me.  But  my  work  is  my 
work.  You  will  have  no  more  say  in  that  than  I 
think  good  for  you.  You  will  come  with  me  wherever 
I  think  well  to  take  you,  and  I  shall  be  glad  enough 
to  have  you.  Otherwise  you  will  stay  behind  and 
look  after  my  home — and,  I  hope,  my  children." 

Her  face  was  a  deep  scarlet.  She  knew  now  what 
this  marriage  meant  to  him.  What  it  had  meant  to 
her,  rushing  into  it  so  blindly,  seemed  a  foolish,  far 
off  thing.  Her  strongest  feeling  was  a  passionate 
desire  for  her  mother's  presence.  She  was  helpless, 
alone  with  this  man,  from  whom  she  felt  a  revulsion 
that  almost  overpowered  her. 

He  sat  for  a  full  minute  staring  at  her  downcast 
face,  his  mouth  firmly  set,  a  shght  frown  on  his 
brows. 

"  Come  now,"  he  said  more  roughly.  "  You  don't 
really  know  what  you  want.  But  I  know.  Trust 
me,  and  before  God,  I  will  make  you  happy." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Oh,  I  want  to  go 
home,"  she  cried. 

He  shifted  in  his  chair.    The  lines  of  his  face  did 


224     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

not  relax.  He  must  set  himself  to  master  this 
mood.  He  knew  he  had  the  power,  and  he  must 
exercise  it  once  for  all.  The  mood  must  not  recur 
again,  or  if  it  did  it  must  not  be  shown  to  him. 

And  there  is  no  doubt  at  all  that  he  would  have 
mastered  it.  But  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
Cicely  sitting  there  in  front  of  him,  crying,  with  a 
white  face  and  strained  eyes,  there  were  voices  on 
the  stairs,  the  door  opened,  and  Dick  and  Jim  Gra- 
ham came  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER    XVI 


THE    PURSUIT 


Cicely  had  not  been  missed  from  home  until  the 
evening.  At  tea-time  she  was  supposed  to  be  at  the 
dower-house,  or  else  at  the  Rectory.  It  was  only 
when  she  had  not  returned  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  that 
the  maid  who  waited  upon  her  and  her  mother  told 
Mrs.  Clinton  that  she  was  not  in  her  room. 

"Where  on  earth  can  she  be?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Clinton.  Punctuality  at  meals  being  so  rigidly  ob- 
served it  was  unprecedented  that  Cicely  should  not 
have  begun  to  dress  at  a  quarter  to  eight.  At  ten 
minutes  to  eight  Mrs.  Clinton  was  convinced  that 
some  accident  had  befallen  her.  At  five  minutes  to, 
she  tapped  at  the  door  of  the  Squire's  dressing-room. 
"  Edward,"  she  called,  "  Cicely  has  not  come  home 

yet." 

"  Come  in !  Come  in !  "  called  the  Squire.  He  was 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  paring  his  nails. 

"I  am  afraid  something  has  happened  to  her," 
said  Mrs.  Clinton  anxiously. 

"  Now,  Nina,  don't  fuss,"  said  the  Squire.  "  What 
can  possibly  have  happened  to  her.?  She  must  be  at 
the  dower-house,  though,  of  course,  she  ought  to  be 
home  by  this  time.  Nobody  in  this  house  is  ever 
punctual  but  myself.    I  am  alwaj's  speaking  about  it. 

325 


226     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

You  must  see  that  the  children  are  in  time  for  meals. 
If  nobody  is  punctual  the  whole  house  goes  to 
pieces." 

Mrs.  Clinton  went  downstairs  into  the  morning- 
room,  where  they  were  wont  to  assemble  for  dinner. 
Dick  was  there  already,  reading  a  paper.  "  Cicely 
has  not  come  home  yet,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  By  Jove,  she'll  catch  it,"  said  Dick,  and  went  on 
reading  his  paper. 

Mrs.  Clinton  went  to  the  window  and  drew  the 
curtain  aside.  It  was  not  yet  quite  dark  and  she 
could  see  across  the  park  the  footpath  by  which 
Cicely  would  come  from  the  dower-house.  But  there 
was  no  one  there.  Mrs.  Clinton's  heart  sank.  She 
knew  that  something  had  happened.  Cicely  would 
never  have  stayed  out  as  late  as  this  if  she 
could  have  helped  it.  She  came  back  into  the 
room  and  rang  the  bell.  "  I  must  send  down,"  she 
said. 

Dick  put  his  paper  aside  and  looked  up  at  her. 
"  It  is  rather  odd,"  he  said. 

The  butler  came  into  the  room,  and  the  Squire 
immediately  behind  him.  "  Edward,  I  want  some  one 
to  go  down  to  the  dower-house  and  see  if  Cicely  has 
been  there,"  Mrs.  Clinton  said.  "  I  am  anxious  about 
her." 

The  Squire  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  "  Send 
a  man  down  to  the  dower-house  to  ask  if  Miss  Clinton 
has  been  there  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "  and  if  she 
hasn't,  tell  him  to  go  to  the  Rectory." 


THE    PURSUIT  227 

The  butler  left  the  room,  but  returned  immediately 
with  Cicely's  telegram.  It  was  one  minute  to  eight 
o'clock.  He  hung  on  his  heel  after  handing  the 
salver  to  Mrs.  Clinton  and  then  left  the  room  to 
carry  out  his  previous  instructions.  It  was  not  his 
place  to  draw  conclusions,  but  to  do  as  he  was 
told. 

Mrs.  Clinton  read  the  telegram  and  handed  it  to 
the  Squire,  searching  his  face  as  he  read  it.  "  What, 
the  devil  1  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  and  handed  it  to 
Dick. 

The  big  clock  in  the  hall  began  to  strike.  Porter 
threw  open  the  door  again.  "  Dinner  is  served, 
ma'am,"  he  said. 

"  You  needn't  send  down  to  the  dower-house," 
Dick  said,  raising  his  eyes  from  the  paper.  "  Miss 
Clinton  has  gone  up  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Walter." 
Then  he  offered  his  arm  to  his  mother  to  lead  her 
out  of  the  room. 

"  Shut  the  door,"  shouted  the  Squire,  and  the  door 
was  shut.  "  What  on  earth  does  it  mean?  "  he  asked, 
in  angry  amazement. 

"  Better  have  gone  in  to  dinner,"  said  Dick.  "  I 
don't  know." 

Mrs.  Clinton  was  white,  and  said  nothing.  The 
Squire  turned  to  her.  "  What  does  it  mean,  Nina?  " 
he  asked  again.  "  Did  you  know  anything  about 
this?" 

"  Of  course  mother  didn't  know,"  said  Dick. 
"  There's  something  queer.     It's  too  late  to  send  a 


2^8     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

wire.  I'll  go  up  by  the  eleven  o'clock  train  and 
find  out  all  about  it.  Better  go  in  now."  He  laid 
the  telegram  carelessly  on  a  table. 

"  Don't  leave  it  about,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Better  leave  it  there,"  said  Dick,  and  offered  his 
arm  to  his  mother  again. 

They  went  into  the  dining-room,  only  a  minute 
late. 

"  Tell  Higgs  to  pack  me  a  bag  for  two  nights," 
said  Dick  when  the  Squire  had  mumbled  a  grace, 
"  and  order  my  cart  for  ten  o'clock.  I'm  going  up 
to  London.    I  shan't  want  anybody." 

Then,  as  long  as  the  servants  were  in  the  room 
they  talked  as  usual.  At  least  Dick  did,  with  fre- 
quent mention  of  Walter  and  Muriel  and  some  of 
Cicely.  The  Squire  responded  to  him  as  well  as  he 
was  able,  and  Mrs.  Clinton  said  nothing  at  all.  But 
that  was  nothing  unusual. 

When  they  were  alone  at  last,  the  Squire  burst  out, 
but  in  a  low  voice,  "What  on  earth  does  it  mean.'^ 
Tell  me  what  it  means,  Dick." 

"  She  hasn't  had  a  row  with  any  one,  has  she, 
mother?  "  asked  Dick,  cracking  a  walnut. 

Mrs.  Clinton  moistened  her  lips.  "  With  whom?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  know  it's  very  unlikely.  I  suppose  she's  got 
some  maggot  in  her  head.  Misunderstood,  or 
something.  You  never  know  what  girls  are  going 
to  do  next.  She  has  been  rather  mopy  lately.  I've 
noticed  it." 


THE    PURSUIT  229 

"  She  has  not  seen  Muriel  since  she  was  married," 
said  Mrs.  Clinton.    "  She  has  missed  her." 

"  Pah !  "  spluttered  the  Squire.  "  How  dare  she 
go  off  like  that  without  a  word?  What  on  earth  can 
you  have  been  thinking  of  to  let  her,  Nina?  And 
what  was  Miles  doing?  Miles  must  have  packed  her 
boxes.  And  who  drove  her  to  the  station?  When 
did  she  go?  Here  we  are,  sitting  calmly  here  and 
nobody  thinks  of  asking  any  of  these  questions." 

"  It  was  Miles  who  told  me  she  had  not  come  back," 
said  Mrs.  Chnton.    "  She  was  as  surprised  as  I  was." 

"  Ring  the  bell,  Dick,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  up,  mother,  and  see 
what  she  took  with  her,"  said  Dick.  "  Don't  say 
anything  to  anybody  but  Miles,  and  tell  her  to  keep 
quiet." 

Mrs.  Clinton  went  out  of  the  room.  Dick  closed 
the  door  which  he  had  opened  for  her,  came  back  to 
the  table,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "  There's  something 
queer,  father,"  he  said,  "  but  we  had  better  make  it 
seem  as  natural  as  possible.  I  shouldn't  worry  if  I 
were  you.  I'll  find  out  all  about  it  and  bring  her 
back." 

"  Worry !  "  snorted  the  Squire.  "  It's  Cicely  who 
is  going  to  worry.  If  she  thinks  she  is  going  to 
behave  like  that  in  this  house  she  is  very  much  mis- 
taken." 

Dick  drove  into  Bathgate  at  twenty  minutes  to 
eleven.  He  always  liked  to  give  himself  plenty  of 
time  to  catch  a  train,  but  hated  waiting  about  on  the 


230     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

platform.  So  he  stopped  at  the  George  Hotel  and 
went  into  the  hall  for  a  whisky-and-soda. 

"  Oh,  good  evening,  Captain,"  said  the  landlord, 
who  was  behind  the  bar.  "  If  you  are  going  back 
to  Kencote  you  can  save  me  sending  over.  This 
letter  has  just  come  down  by  train."  He  handed 
Dick  a  square  envelope  which  he  had  just  opened. 
On  it  was  his  name  and  address  in  Cicely's  writing, 
and  an  underlined  inscription,  "  Please  send  the 
enclosed  letter  to  Kencote  by  special  messenger 
as  early  as  possible  to-morrow  morning."  Dick  took 
out  the  inner  envelope  which  was  addressed  to  his 
mother,  and  looked  at  it.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  "  I'll 
take  it  over,"  and  slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his 
light  overcoat.  He  ordered  his  whisky-and-soda 
and  drank  it,  talking  to  the  landlord  as  he  did  so, 
Only  a  comer  of  the  bar  faced  the  hall,  which  wa« 
otherwise  empty,  and  as  he  went  out  he  took  the 
letter  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it. 

"  The  devil  you  will !  "  he  said,  as  he  read  the  few 
words  Cicely  had  written.  Then  he  went  out  and 
stood  for  a  second  beside  his  cart,  thinking. 

"  I'm  going  to  Mountfield,"  he  said  as  he  swung 
the  horse  round  and  the  groom  jumped  up  behind. 
The  groom  would  wonder  at  his  change  of  plan  and 
when  he  got  back  he  would  talk.  If  he  told  him  not 
to  he  would  talk  all  the  more.  Wisest  to  say  nothing 
at  present.  So  Dick  drove  along  the  five  miles  of 
dark  road  at  an  easy  pace,  for  he  could  catch  no 
train  now   until  seven   o'clock  in  the  morning  and 


THE   PURSUIT  ^Sl 

there  was  no  use  in  hurrying,  and  thought  and 
thought,  as  he  drove.  If  he  failed  in  stopping  this 
astonishing  and  iniquitous  proceeding  it  would  not 
be  for  want  of  thinking. 

Mountfield  was  an  early  house.  Jim  himself 
unbarred  and  unlocked  the  front  door  to  the  groom's 
ring.  The  chains  and  bolts  to  be  undone  seemed 
endless.  "  Take  out  my  bag,"  said  Dick,  as  he 
waited,  sitting  in  the  cart.  "  I'm  going  to  stay  here 
for  the  night.  There'll  be  a  note  to  take  back  to 
Mrs.  Clinton.     See  that  it  goes  up  to  her  to-night." 

He  spoke  so  evenly  that  the  groom  wondered  if, 
after  all,  there  was  anything  going  on  under  the 
surface  at  all. 

"  Hullo,  old  chap,"  Dick  called  out,  directly  Jim's 
astonished  face  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "  Cicely 
has  bolted  off  to  see  Muriel,  and  the  governor  has 
sent  me  to  fetch  her  back.  I  was  going  up  by  the 
eleven  o'clock  train,  but  I  thought  I'd  come  here  for 
to-night,  and  take  you  up  with  me  in  the  morning. 
There's  nothing  to  hurry  for." 

Then  he  got  down  from  the  cart  and  gave  the 
reins  to  the  groom.  "  I  just  want  to  send  a  note  to 
the  mater  so  that  she  won't  worry,"  he  said,  as  he 
went  into  the  house. 

He  went  across  the  hall  into  Jim's  room,  and  Jim, 
who  had  not  spoken,  followed  him.  "  Read  that," 
he  said,  putting  the  letter  into  his  hand. 

Jim  read  it  and  looked  up  at  him.  There  was  no 
expression  on  his  face  but  one  of  bewilderment. 


^32     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  You  think  it  over,"  said  Dick,  a  little  impa- 
tiently, and  went  to  the  writing-table  and  scribbled 
a  note. 

"  Dear  Mother, — I  thought  I  would  come  on  here 
first  on  the  chance  of  hearing  something,  and  glad 
I  did  so.  There  is  a  letter  from  Cicely.  It  is  all 
right.  Jim  and  I  are  going  up  to-morrow  morning. 
Don't  worry. 

«  Dick." 

Then,  without  taking  any  notice  of  Jim,  still 
standing  gazing  at  the  letter  in  his  hand  with  the 
same  puzzled  expression  on  his  face,  he  went  out  and 
despatched  the  groom,  closing  the  hall  door  after 
him. 

He  went  back  into  the  room  and  shut  that  door 
too.  "  Well !  "  he  said  sharply.  "  What  the  devil 
does  it  mean?  " 

Jim's  expression  had  changed.  It  was  now  angry 
as  well  as  puzzled.  "  It  was  when  he  went  after  her 
on  Sunday,"  he  said.    "  Damn  him !    I  thought " 

"  Never  mind  what  you  thought,"  said  Dick. 
"  When  did  he  see  her  alone?  " 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you.  When  we  came  over 
yesterday  afternoon  he  saw  her  over  the  wall,  and 
directly  we  got  to  the  house  he  bolted  off  after  her. 
He  said  he  had  promised  to  show  her  some  sketches." 

"  But  he  didn't  find  her.  He  said  so  at  tea-time 
— ^when  she  came  out." 


THE    PURSUIT  233 

Jim  was  silent.  *'  Perhaps  that  was  a  bhnd,"  said 
Dick.  "  How  long  was  it  before  he  came  back  and 
said  he  couldn't  find  her?  " 

"  About  half  an  hour,  I  should  think.  Not  so 
much." 

"  He  rtmst  have  found  her.  But,  good  heavens ! 
he  can't  have  persuaded  her  to  run  away  with  him  in 
half  an  hour!  He  had  never  been  alone  with  her 
before." 

"  No." 

"  And  he  didn't  see  her  alone  afterwards." 

Jim's  face  suddenly  went  dark.  "  He — he — went 
out  after  we  went  up  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"  He  asked  me  to  leave  the  door  unlocked.  He  said 
he  might  not  sleep,  and  if  he  didn't  he  should  go  out." 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another.  "  That's  a 
nice  thing  to  hear  of  your  sister,"  said  Dick  bitterly. 

"  It's  a  nice  thing  to  hear  of  a  man  you've  treated 
as  a  friend,"  said  Jim. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  the  fellow  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  told  you.  I  met  him  when  I  was  travelling, 
and  asked  him  to  look  me  up.  I  haven't  seen  him 
since  until  he  wrote  and  said  he  wanted  to  come  for 
a  quiet  Sunday." 

"Why  did  he  want  to  come?  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Jim.  She  must  have  met  him  in  London,  and 
you  were  the  bUnd.  Yes,  that's  it.  She's  been  dif- 
ferent since  she  came  back.  I've  noticed  it.  We've 
aU  noticed  it." 


j234j     the    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  I  don't  believe  they  met  before,"  said  Jim  slowly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  did.  Dick,  do  you  think  they 
can  be  married  already?     Is  there  time  to  stop  it?  " 

"  Yes,  there's  time.  I've  thought  it  out.  We'll 
go  up  by  the  seven  o'clock  train.  Where  does  the 
fellow  live?  " 

Jim  thought  a  moment.  "  I  don't  know.  He 
wrote  from  the  Royal  Societies  Club." 

"  Well,  we'll  find  him.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  about 
it  any  more  now.  I'm  too  angry.  Cicely !  She 
ought  to  be  whipped.  If  it  is  too  late,  she  shall 
never  come  to  Kencote  again,  if  I  have  any  say  in 
the  matter,  and  I  don't  think  my  say  will  be  needed. 
Let's  go  to  bed.  We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to 
talk  in  the  train." 

"  I'll  go  and  get  hold  of  Grove,"  said  Jim.  "  He 
must  get  a  room  ready,  and  see  that  we  get  to  the 
station  in  the  morning,"  and  he  went  out  of  the 
room. 

Dick  walked  up  and  down,  and  then  poured  him- 
self out  whisky-and-soda  from  a  table  standing 
ready.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  threw  the  match  vio- 
lently into  the  fireplace.  When  Jim  returned  he 
said,  "  I've  managed  to  keep  it  pretty  dark  so  far. 
The  governor  would  have  blurted  everything  out — 
everything  that  he  knew.  I'm  glad  I  intercepted 
that  letter  to  the  mater.  I  haven't  any  sort  of 
feeling  about  opening  it.  Pm  going  to  see  to  this. 
If  we  can  get  hold  of  her  before  it's  too  late,  she 


THE    PURSUIT  235 

must  go  to  Muriel  for  a  bit ;  I  must  keep  it  from  the 
governor  as  long  as  I  can — until  I  get  back  and  can 
tackle  him.  He'll  be  so  furious  that  he'll  give  it 
away  all  round.  He  wouldn't  think  about  the 
scandal." 

"Pray  God  we  shan't  be  too  late,"  said  Jim. 
"  What  a  fool  I've  been,  Dick !  I  took  it  all  for 
granted.  I  never  thought  that  she  wasn't  just  as 
fond  of  me  as  I  was  of  her." 

Dick  looked  at  him.  "  Well,  I  suppose  that's  all 
over  now,"  he  said,  "  a  girl  who  behaves  like  that !  " 

Jim  turned  away,  and  said  nothing,  and  by  and  by 
they  went  up  to  bed. 

They  drove  over  to  Bathgate  the  next  morning 
and  caught  the  seven  o'clock  train  to  Ganton,  where 
they  picked  up  the  London  express.  Alone  in  a  first- 
class  smoking-carriage  they  laid  their  plans.  "  I 
have  an  idea  that  is  worth  trying  before  we  do  any- 
thing else,"  said  Jim.  "  When  we  were  travelling 
together  that  fellow  told  me  of  some  rooms  in 
Bloomsbury  he  always  went  to  when  he  could  get 
them." 

"  Do  you  know  the  address  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jim,  and  gave  it.  "  He  said  they 
were  the  best  rooms  in  London,  and  made  me  write 
down  the  address.     I  found  it  last  night." 

*'  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  say  so  before?  " 

*'  I  had  forgotten.  I  didn't  suppose  I  should  ever 
want  to  take  rooms  in  Bloomsbury." 

"  It's  a  chance.    We'll  go  there  first.    If  we  draw 


236     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

blank,  we  will  go  to  his  club,  and  then  to  the 
Geographical  Society.    We'll  find  him  somewhere." 

"  We  can't  do  anything  to  him,"  said  Jim. 

"  I'm  not  thinking  much  of  him,"  Dick  confessed. 
"  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  bruise  him  a  bit — though 
I  dare  say  he'd  be  just  as  likely  to  bruise  me.  He's 
got  an  amazing  cheek;  but,  after  all,  a  man  plays 
his  own  hand.  If  she  had  behaved  herself  properly 
he  couldn't  have  done  anything." 

He  flicked  the  ash  of  his  cigar  on  to  the  carpet  and 
looked  carelessly  out  of  the  window,  but  turned  his 
head  sharply  at  the  tone  in  which  Jim  said,  "  If  I 
could  get  him  alone,  and  it  couldn't  do  her  any  harm 
afterwards,  I'd  kill  him."  And  he  cursed  Mackenzie 
with  a  deliberate,  blasphemous  oath. 

Dick  said  nothing,  but  looked  out  of  the  window 
again  with  an  expression  that  was  not  careless. 

Jim  spoke  again  in  the  same  low  voice  of  sup- 
pressed passion.  "  I  told  him  about  her  when  I  was 
travelling.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  did.  And  after 
you  dined  on  Friday  we  spoke  about  her.  He 
praised  her.  I  didn't  say  much,  but  he  knew  what  I 
felt.  And  he  had  got  this  in  his  mind  then.  He  must 
have  had.  He  was  my  friend,  staying  in  my  house. 
He's  a  liar  and  a  scoundrel.  For  all  he's  done,  and 
the  name  he's  made,  he's  not  fit  company  for  decent 
men.  Dick,  I'd  give  up  everything  I  possess  for  the 
chance  of  handling  him." 

"  I'd  back  you  up,"  said  Dick.  "  But  the  chief 
thing  is  to  get  her  away  from  him." 


THE   PURSUIT  237 

"  I  know  that.  It's  the  only  thing.  We  can't  do 
anything.  I  was  thinking  of  it  nearly  all  night  long. 
And  supposing  we  don't  find  him,  or  don't  find  him 
till  too  late." 

"  We  won't  think  of  that,"  said  Dick  coolly. 
"  One  thing  at  a  time.  And  we'll  shut  his  mouth,  at 
any  rate.     I  feel  equal  to  that." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  Jim  said, 
"  Dick,  I'd  like  to  say  one  thing.  She  may  not  care 
about  seeing  me.  I  suppose  she  can't  care  for  me 
much — now — or  she  wouldn't  have  let  him  take  her 
away.  But  I'm  going  to  fight  for  her — see  that? 
I'm  going  to  fight  for  her,  if  it's  not  too  late." 

Dick  looked  uncomfortable  in  face  of  his  earnest- 
ness. "  If  you  want  her,"  he  began  hesitatingly, 
"  after " 

"  Want  her !  "  echoed  Jim.  "  Haven't  I  always 
wanted  her?  I  suppose  I  haven't  shown  it.  It  isn't 
my  way  to  show  much.  But  I  thought  it  was  all 
settled  and  I  rested  on  that.  Good  God,  I've 
wanted  her  every  day  of  my  life — ever  since  we  fixed 
it  up  together — years  ago.  I  wish  I'd  taken  her, 
now,  and  let  the  beastly  finance  right  itself.  It 
wouldn't  have  made  much  difference,  after  all.  But 
I  wanted  to  give  her  everything  she  ought  to  have. 
If  I've  seemed  contented  to  wait,  I  can  tell  you  I 
haven't  been.  I  didn't  want  to  worry  her.  I — I — 
thought  she  understood." 

"  She's  behaved  very  badly,"  said  Dick,  too  polite 
to   show  his  surprise   at  this   revelation.     Jim  had 


238     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

always  been  rather  a  queer  fellow.  "  If  you  want 
her  still,  she  ought  to  be  precious  thankful.  The 
whole  thing  puzzles  me.     I  can't  see  her  doing  it." 

"  I  couldn't,  last  night,"  said  Jim,  more  quietly. 
"  I  can  now.  She's  got  pluck.  I  never  gave  her  any 
chance  to  show  it." 

They  were  mostly  silent  after  this.  Every  now 
and  then  one  of  them  said  a  word  or  two  that  showed 
that  their  thoughts  were  busy  in  what  lay  before 
them.  The  last  thing  Jim  said  before  the  train 
drew  up  at  the  same  platform  at  which  Cicely  had 
alighted  the  day  before  was,  "  I  can't  do  anything  to 
him." 

They  drove  straight  to  the  house  in  Bloomsbury. 
Mrs.  Fletcher  opened  the  door  to  them.  "  Mr. 
Mackenzie  is  expecting  us,  I  think,"  said  Dick 
suavely,  and  made  as  if  to  enter. 

Mrs.  Fletcher  looked  at  them  suspiciously,  more 
because  it  was  her  way  than  because,  in  face  of  Dick's 
assumption,  she  had  any  doubts  of  their  right  of 
entrance.  "  He  didn't  say  that  he  expected  any- 
body," she  said.  "  I  can  take  your  names  up  to 
him." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  we  won't  trouble  you,"  said  Dick. 
"  We  will  go  straight  up.  First  floor,  as  usual,  I 
suppose?  " 

It  was  a  slip,  and  Mrs.  Fletcher  planted  herself 
in  the  middle  of  the  passage  at  once. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  she  said.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  '  as  usual '  ?     Neither  of  you  have  been  in  the 


THE    PURSUIT  239 

house  before.  You  won't  go  up  to  Mr.  Mackenzie 
without  I  know  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  Dick,  at  once.  "  We  are 
going  up  to  Mr.  Mackenzie,  and  I  expect  you  know 
why.  If  you  try  to  stop  us,  one  of  us  will  stay  here 
and  the  other  will  fetch  the  policeman.  You  can 
make  up  your  mind  at  once  which  it  shall  be,  be- 
cause we've  no  time  to  waste." 

"  Nobody  has  ever  talked  to  me  about  a  police- 
man before ;  you'll  do  it  at  your  peril,"  she  said 
angrily,  still  standing  in  the  passage,  but  Dick  saw 
her  cast  an  eye  towards  the  door  on  her  left. 

"  I'm  quite  ready  to  take  the  consequences,"  said 
Dick,  "  but  whatever  they  are  it  won't  do  you  any 
good  with  other  people  in  your  house  to  have  the 
police  summoned  at  half-past  ten  in  the  morning. 
Now  will  you  let  us  pass?  " 

She  suddenly  turned  and  made  way  for  them. 
Dick  went  upstairs  and  Jim  followed  him.  The  door 
of  the  drawing-room  was  opposite  to  them.  "  I'll 
do  the  talking,"  said  Dick,  and  opened  the  door  and 
went  in. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE    CONTEST 

Mackenzie  sprang  up  and  stood  facing  them.  His 
face  had  changed  in  a  flash.  It  was  not  at  all  the 
face  of  a  man  who  had  been  caught  and  was  ashamed ; 
it  was  rather  glad.  Even  his  ill-made  London  clothes 
could  not  at  that  moment  disguise  his  magnificent 
gift  of  virility.  So  he  might  have  looked — when  there 
was  no  one  to  see  him — face  to  face  with  sudden,  un- 
expected danger  in  far  diff^erent  surroundings,  daunt- 
less, and  eager  to  wrest  his  life  out  of  the  instant 
menace  of  death. 

Dick  had  a  momentary  perception  of  the  quality 
of  the  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  which  was  instantly 
obliterated  by  a  wave  of  contemptuous  dislike — the 
dislike  of  a  man  to  whom  all  expression  of  feeling, 
except,  perhaps,  anger,  was  an  off'ence.  He  had 
looked  death  in  the  face  too,  but  not  with  that  air. 
Assumed  at  a  moment  like  this  it  was  a  vulgar 
absurdity.  He  met  Mackenzie's  look  with  a  cool 
contempt. 

But  the  challenge,  and  the  reply  to  it,  had  occu- 
pied but  a  moment.  Cicely  had  looked  up  and  cried, 
"  O  Dick !  "  and  had  tried  to  rise  from  her  chair  to 
come  to  him,  but  could  not.  The  tone  in  which  she 
uttered  that  appeal  for  mercy  and  protection  made 

240 


THE    CONTEST  241 

Jim  Graham  wince,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  affect  her 
brother.     "  Go  and  get  ready  to  come  with  us,"  he 

said. 

Jim  had  never  taken  his  eyes  off  Cicely  since  he 
had  entered  the  room,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him. 
She  sat  in  her  chair,  trembling  a  little,  her  eyes 
upon  her  brother's  face,  which  was  now  turned 
toward  her  with  no  expression  in  it  but  a  cold  au- 
thority. 

She  stood  up  with  difficulty,  and  Jim  took  half 
a  step  forward.  But  Mackenzie  broke  in,  with  a 
gesture  towards  her.  "  Come  now.  Captain  Clinton," 
he  said.  "  You  have  found  us  out ;  but  I  am  going 
to  marry  your  sister.  You  are  not  going  to  take  her 
away,  you  know."  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  easy  good 
humour.  The  air,  slightly  theatrical,  as  it  had 
seemed,  with  which  he  had  faced  their  intrusion,  had 

disappeared. 

Dick  took  no  notice  of  him  whatever.  "  I  am 
going  to  take  you  up  to  Muriel,"  he  said  to  Cicely. 

"  There's  a  cab  waiting.     Have  you  anything  to  get, 

or  are  you  ready  to  come  now?  " 

She   turned   to   go   to   her   room,   but   Mackenzie 

interposed    again.      "  Stay    here,    please,"    he    said. 

"  We  won't  take  our  orders  from  Captain  Clinton. 

Look  here,  Clinton,  I  dare  say  this  has  been  a  bit  of 

a  shock  to  you,  and  I'm  sorry  it  had  to  be  done  in 

such  a  hurry.    But  everything  is  straight  and  honest. 

I  want  to  marry  your  sister,  and  she  wants  to  marry 

me.      She  is  of  age   and  you   can't  stop  her.     I'm 


242     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

going  to  make  her  a  good  husband,  and  she's  going 
to  make  me  the  best  of  wives." 

He  still  spoke  good-humouredly,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  used  to  command  who  condescends  to  reason. 
He  knew  his  power  and  was  accustomed  to  exercise 
it,  with  a  hand  behind  his  back,  so  to  speak,  upon 
just  such  young  men  as  these;  men  who  were  so- 
cially his  superiors,  and  on  that  very  account  to  be 
kept  under,  and  taught  that  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  social  superiority  where  his  work  was  to  be  done, 
but  only  leader  and  led. 

But  still  Dick  took  no  notice  of  him.  "  Come 
along,  Cicely,"  he  said,  with  a  trifle  of  impatience. 

Mackenzie  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily.  "  Very 
well,"  he  said,  "  if  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  take 
that  fool's  line,  take  it  and  welcome.  Only  you 
won't  take  her.  She's  promised  to  me.  My  dear, 
tell  them  so." 

He  bent  his  look  upon  Cicely,  the  look  which  had 
made  her  soft  in  his  hands.  Dick  was  looking  at  her 
too,  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  with 
cold  displeasure.  And  Jim  had  never  looked  away 
from  her.  His  face  was  tender  and  compassionate, 
but  she  did  not  see  it.  She  looked  at  Dick,  searching 
his  face  for  a  sign  of  such  tenderness,  but  none  was 
there,  or  she  would  have  gone  to  him.  Her  eyes 
were  drawn  to  Mackenzie's,  and  rested  there  as  if 
fascinated.  They  were  like  those  of  a  frightened 
animal. 

"  Come  now,"  said  Mackenzie  abruptly.     "  It  is 


THE    CONTEST  ^43 

for  you  to  end  all  this.  I  would  have  spared  you  if 
I  could — you  know  that;  but  if  they  must  have  it 
from  you,  let  them  have  it.  Tell  them  that  I  asked 
you  to  come  away  and  marry  me,  and  that  you  came 
of  your  own  accord.  Tell  them  that  I  have  taken 
care  of  you.  Tell  them  that  we  are  to  be  married 
this  morning." 

She  hesitated  painfully,  and  her  eyes  went  to  her 
brother's  face  again  in  troubled  appeal.  He  made 
no  response  to  her  look,  but  when  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  had  ticked  half  a  dozen  audible  beats 
and  she  had  not  spoken,  he  turned  to  Mackenzie. 

"  I  see,"  he  said.     "  You  have " 

"  Oh,  let  her  speak,"  Mackenzie  interrupted 
roughly,  with  a  flashing  glance  at  him.  "  You  have 
had  your  say." 

"  It  is  quite  plain,  sir,"  proceeded  Dick  in  his 
level  voice,  "  that  you  have  gained  some  sort  of  in- 
fluence over  my  sister." 

"Oh,  that  is  plain,  is  it.?"  sneered  Mackenzie. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  don't  express  myself  very 
cleverly,"  said  Dick.  "  What  I  mean  is  that  some- 
how you  have  managed  to  bully  her  into  running 
away  with  you." 

They  looked  into  one  another's  eyes  for  an  in- 
stant. The  swords  were  crossed.  Mackenzie  turned 
to  Cicely.     "Did  I  do  that?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"  If  I  might  suggest,"  Dick  said,  before  she  could 
reply,  "  that  you  don't  try  and  get  behind  my  sister, 
but  speak  up  for  yourself " 


244     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  Did  I  do  that  ?  "  asked  Mackenzie  again. 

"0  Dick  dear,"  said  Cicely,  "I  said  I  would 
come.     It  was  my  own  fault." 

"  Your  own  fault — yes,"  said  Dick.  "  But  I  am 
talking  to  this — this  gentleman,  now." 

Mackenzie  faced  him  again.  "  Oh,  we're  to  have 
all  that  wash  about  gentlemen,  are  we.^  I'm  not  a 
gentleman.     That's  the  trouble,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  part  of  the  trouble,"  said  Dick.  "  A  good 
big  part." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  do  with  the  gentlemen  who 
come  worrying  me  for  jobs  when  I  go  on  an  expedi- 
tion. Captain  Clinton — the  gentlemen  who  want  to 
get  seconded  from  your  regiment  and  all  the  other 
smart  regiments,  to  serve  under  me?  " 

"  Shall  we  stick  to  the  point?  "  asked  Dick.  "  My 
cab  is  waiting." 

Mackenzie's  face  looked  murderous  for  a  moment, 
but  he  had  himself  in  hand  at  once.  "  The  point  is," 
he  said,  "  that  I  am  going  to  marry  your  sister,  with 
her  consent." 

"  The  point  is  how  you  got  her  consent.  I  am 
here  in  place  of  my  father — and  hers.  If  she 
marries  you  she  marries  you,  but  she  doesn't  do 
it  before  I  tell  her  what  she  is  letting  herself  in 
for." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  tell  her  that." 

"  I  will."  Dick  looked  at  Cicely.  "  I  should  like 
to  ask  you  to  begin  with  when  you  first  met — Mr. 
Mackenzie,"   he   said. 


THE    CONTEST  245 

"  Dear  Dick !  "  cried  Cicely,  "  don't  be  so  cruel. 

I — I — was  discontented  at  home,  and  I " 

"We  met  first  at  Graham's  house,"  said  Mac- 
kenzie, "  when  you  were  there.  I  first  spoke  to  her 
alone  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  promised  to 
come  away  and  marry  me  on  Sunday  night.  Now 
go  on." 

"  That    was    when    you    told    Graham    that    you 

couldn't  sleep,  I  suppose,  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

"  I  walked  over  from  Mountfield,  and  she  came  to 

me  in  the  garden,  as  I  had  asked  her  to.     We  were 

together  about  three  minutes." 

Dick  addressed  Cicely  again,  still  with  the  same 
cold  authority.  "  You  were  discontented  at  home. 
You  can  tell  me  why  afterwards.  You  meet  this 
man  and  hear  him  bragging  of  his  great  deeds,  and 
when  he  takes  you  by  surprise  and  asks  you  to  marry 
him,  you  are  first  of  all  rather  frightened,  and  then 
you  think  it  would  be  an  adventure  to  go  off  with 
him.     Is  that  it.?  " 

"  It's  near  enough,"  said  Mackenzie,  "  except  that 
I  don't  brag." 

"  I've  got  my  own  ears,"  said  Dick,  still  facing 
Cicely.  "  Well,  I  dare  say  the  sort  of  people  you're 
used  to  don't  seem  much  beside  a  man  who  gets  him- 
self photographed  on  picture  postcards,  but  I'll  tell 
you  a  few  of  the  things  we  don't  do.  We  don't  go 
and  stay  in  our  friends'  houses  and  then  rob  them. 
You  belonged  to  Jim.  You'd  promised  him,  and  this 
man  knew  it.     We  don't  go  to  other  men's  houses 


^46     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

and  eat  their  salt  and  make  love  to  their  daughters 
behind  their  backs.  We  don't  tell  mean  lies.  We 
don't  ask  young  girls  to  sneak  out  of  their  homes  to 
meet  us  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  We  respect  the 
women  we  want  to  marry,  we  don't  compromise  them. 
If  this  man  had  been  a  fit  husband  for  you,  he 
would  have  asked  for  you  openly.  It's  just  because 
he  knows  he  isn't  that  he  brings  all  his  weight  to 
bear  upon  you,  and  you  alone.  He  doesn't  dare  to 
face  your  father  or  your  brothers." 

Cicely  had  sunk  down  into  her  chair  again.  Her 
head  was  bent,  but  her  eyes  were  dry  now.  Mac- 
kenzie had  listened  to  him  with  his  face  set  and  his 
lips  pressed  together.  What  he  thought  of  the  dam- 
aging indictment,  whether  it  showed  him  his  actions 
in  a  fresh  light,  or  only  heightened  his  resentment, 
nobody  could  have  told.  "  Have  you  finished  what 
you  have  to  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  quite,"  replied  Dick.  "  Listen  to  me, 
Cicely." 

"  Yes,  and  then  listen  to  me,"  said  Mackenzie. 

"  What  sort  of  treatment  do  you  think  you're 
going  to  get  from  a  man  who  has  behaved  like  that.'' 
He's  ready  to  give  you  a  hole-and-corner  marriage. 
He  wants  you  for  the  moment,  and  he'll  do  anything 
to  get  you.  He'll  get  tired  of  you  in  a  few  weeks, 
and  then  he'll  go  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  world 
and  where  will  t/ou  be?  How  much  thought  has  he 
given  to  yo7ir  side  of  the  bargain?  He's  ready  to 
cut  you  off  from  your  own  people — he  doesn't  care. 


THE    CONTEST  247 

He  takes  jou  from  a  house  like  Kencote  and  brings 
you  here.  He's  lied  to  Jim,  who  treated  him  hke  a 
friend,  and  he's  behaved  like  a  cad  to  us  who  let  him 
into  our  house.  He's  done  all  these  things  in  a  few 
days.  How  are  you  going  to  spend  your  life  with  a 
fellow  like  that.?" 

Cicely  looked  up.     Her  face  was  firmer,  and  she 
spoke  to  Mackenzie.     "  We  had  begun  to  talk  about 
all  these  things,"  she  said.     "  I  asked  you  a  question 
which  you  didn't  answer.     Did  you  know  when  you 
told  me  you  were  going  back  to  Tibet  in  a  fortnight 
and  there  wasn't  time  to — to  ask  father  for  me,  that 
you  weren't  going  until  next  year.'^  " 
"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Mackenzie. 
«  When  did  he  tell  you  that.?  "  asked  Dick. 
"  On  Sunday." 

"  I  can  find  that  out  for  you  easily  enough.  I 
shouldn't  take  an  answer  from  him." 

Again,  for  a  fraction  of  a  second,  Mackenzie's 
face  was  deadly,  but  he  said  quietly  to  Cicely,  "  I 
have  answered  your  question.     Go  on." 

"  You  know  why  I  did  what  you  asked  me,"  she 
said.  "  I  thought  you  were  offering  me  a  freer  life 
and  that  I  should  share  in  all  your  travels  and 
dangers.  You  told  me  just  before  my  brother  came 
in  that  you  didn't  want  me  for  that." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Mackenzie,  speaking  to  her  as 
if  no  one  else  had  been  in  the  room,  "  that  you 
would  have  a  freer  life,  but  that  I  shouldn't  risk  your 
safety  by  taking  you  into  dangerous  places.     I  told 


248     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

you  that  I  would  do  all  that  a  man  could  do  to 
protect  and  honour  his  chosen  wife,  and  that's  God's 
truth.  I  told  you  that  I  would  make  you  happy. 
That  I  know  I  can  do,  and  I  will  do.  Your  brother 
judges  me  by  the  fiddling  little  rules  he  and  the 
like  of  him  live  by.  He  calls  himself  a  gentle- 
man, and  says  I'm  not  one.  I  know  I'm  not  his 
kind  of  a  gentleman.  I've  no  wish  to  be;  I'm  some- 
thing bigger.  I've  got  my  own  honour.  You  know 
how  I've  treated  you.  Your  own  mother  couldn't 
have  been  more  careful  of  you.  And  so  I'll  treat 
you  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  when  you  give  me 
the  right  to.  You  can't  go  back  now;  it's  too  late. 
You  see  how  this  precious  brother  of  yours  looks 
at  you,  after  what  you  have  done.  You'll  be  sorry 
if  you  throw  yourself  into  his  hands  again.  Show 
some  pluck  and  send  him  about  his  business.  You 
can  trust  yourself  to  me.     You  won't  regret  it." 

The  shadow  of  his  spell  was  over  her  again.  She 
hesitated  once  more  and  Dick's  face  became  hard 
and  angry.  "  Before  you  decide,"  he  said,  "  let  me 
tell  you  this,  that  if  you  do  marry  this  fellow  you 
will  never  come  to  Kencote  again  or  see  any  of  us 
as  long  as  you  live." 

"  You  won't  see  your  eldest  brother,"  said  Mac- 
kenzie. "  I'll  take  care  of  that.  But  you  mil  see 
those  you  want  to  see.  I'll  see  to  that  too.  It's 
time  to  end  this.  I  keep  you  to  your  word.  You 
said  you  were  mine,  and  you  meant  it.  I  don't 
release  you   from  your  promise." 


THE    CONTEST  ^49 

Cicely's  calm  broke  down.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,"  she  cried.     "  I  did  promise." 

"  I  keep  you  to  your  promise,"  said  Mackenzie 
inexorably. 

Then  Jim,  who  had  kept  silence  all  this  time,  spoke 
at  last.  "  Cicely,"  he  said,  "  have  you  forgotten  that 
you  made  me  a  promise.^  " 

"  O  Jim,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him,  "  don't 

speak  to  me.     I  have  behaved  very  badly  to  you." 

"  You  never  wanted  to  marry  him,"  said  Mackenzie 

roughly.     "  He's  not  the  husband  for  a  girl  of  any 

spirit." 

Jim  made  no  sign  of  having  heard  him.  His  face 
was  still  turned  towards  Cicely.  "  It  has  been  my 
fault,"  he  said.  "  I've  taken  it  all  for  granted. 
But  I've  never  thought  about  anybody  else.  Cicely." 
Mackenzie  wouldn't  allow  him  to  make  his  appeal 
as  he  had  allowed  Dick.  "  He  has  had  five  years  to 
take  you  in,"  he  said.  "  He  told  me  so.  And  he 
hasn't  taken  you  because  he  might  have  less  money 
to  spend  on  himself,  till  he'd  paid  off  his  rates  and 
taxes.  He  told  me  that  too.  He  can  afford  to  keep 
half  a  dozen  horses  and  a  house  full  of  servants. 
He  can't  afford  a  wife !  " 

He  spoke  with  violent  contempt.  Dick  gazed  at 
him  steadily  with  contemptuous  dislike.  "  This  is 
the  fellow  that  invited  himself  to  your  house,  Jim," 
he  said. 

"  Let  me  speak  now,  Dick,"  said  Jim,  with  decision. 
"  He  can't  touch  me,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  does. 


S50     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

He's  nothing  at  all.  I  won't  bother  you,  Cicely, 
my  dear.  I've  always  loved  you  and  I  always  shall. 
But " 

"  No,  he  won't  bother  you,"  interrupted  Mac- 
kenzie with  a  sneer.     "  He's  quite  comfortable." 

"  But  you  will  know  I'm  there  when  you  are  ready 
to  be  friends  again.  If  I  haven't  told  you  before  I'll 
tell  you  now.  I've  kept  back  all  I've  felt  for  you, 
but  I've  never  changed  and  I  shan't  change.  This 
won't  make  any  difference,  except  that " 

"  Except  that  he's  lost  you  and  I've  won  you," 
Mackenzie  broke  in.  "  He's  had  his  chance  and  he's 
missed  it.  You  don't  want  to  be  worried  with  his 
drivel." 

Cicely  looked  up  at  Mackenzie.  "  Let  him  speak," 
she  said,  with  some  indignation.  "  I  have  listened 
to  all  you  have  said." 

Mackenzie's  attitude  relaxed  suddenly.  After  a 
searching  glance  at  her  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  turned  aside.  He  took  up  his  grey  kid  gloves 
lying  on  the  table  and  played  with  them. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  for  this — not  a  bit,"  said  Jim, 
"  and  I  never  shall.  Whatever  you  want  I'll  try 
and  give  you." 

"  O  Jim,  I  can't  marry  you  now,"  said  Cicely,  her 
head  turned  from  him.  "  But  you  are  very  kind." 
She  broke  into  tears  again,  more  tempestuous  than 
before.    Her  strength  was  nearly  at  an  end. 

"  I've  told  you  that  I  shan't  worry  you,"  Jim  said. 
"  But  you  mustn't  marry  this  man  without  thinking 


THE    CONTEST  251 

about   it.      You   must   talk   to   your   mother — she'll 
be  heart-broken  if  you  go  away  from  her  like  this." 

"  Oh,  does  she  want  me  back?  "  cried  Cicely. 

"  Yes,  she  does.  You  must  go  up  to  Muriel  now. 
She'll  want  you  too.  And  you  needn't  go  home  till 
you  want  to." 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  home  again,"  she  said. 

Mackenzie  threw  his  gloves  on  to  the  table.  "  Do 
you  want  to  go  home  ?  "  he  asked  her.  His  voice 
had  lost  that  insistent  quality.  He  spoke  as  if  he 
was  asking  her  whether  she  would  like  to  take  a 
walk,  in  a  tone  almost  pleasant. 

"  I  want  to  go  away,"  she  said  doggedly. 

"  Then  you  may  go,"  said  Mackenzie,  still  in  the 
same  easy  voice.  "  I  wanted  you,  and  if  w^e  had  been 
in  a  country  where  men  behave  like  men,  I  would 
have  had  you.  But  I  see  I'm  up  against  the  whole 
pudding  weight  of  British  respectability,  and  I  own 
it's  too  strong  for  me.  We  could  have  shifted  it 
together,  but  you're  not  the  girl  to  go  in  with  a  man. 
I'll  do  without  you." 

"  You  had  better  come  now.  Cicely,"  said  Dick. 

Mackenzie  gave  a  great  laugh,  with  a  movement  of 
his  whole  body  as  if  he  were  throwing  off  a  weight. 

"  Shake  hands  before  you  go,"  he  said,  as  she  rose 
obediently,  "  You're  making  a  mistake,  you  know ; 
but  I  don't  altogether  wonder  at  it.  If  I'd  had  a 
day  longer  they  should  never  have  taken  you  away. 
I  nearly  got  you,  as  it  was." 

Cicely    put    her   hand    into   his    and   looked   him 


252     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

squarely  in  the  face.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said.  "  You 
thought  too  little  of  me  after  all.  If  you  had  really 
been  willing  for  me  to  share  your  life,  I  think  I 
would  have  stayed  with  you." 

His  face  changed  at  that.  He  fixed  her  with  a 
look,  but  she  took  her  hand  out  of  his  and  turned 
away.  "  I  am  ready,  Dick,"  she  said,  and  again  he 
shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"  I  wish  I  had  it  to  do  over  again,"  he  said. 
'*  Well,  gentlemen,  you  have  won  and  I  have  lost.  I 
don't  often  lose,  but  when  I  do  I  don't  whine  about 
it.  You  can  make  your  minds  easy.  Not  a  word 
about  this  shall  pass  my  lips." 

Dick  turned  round  suddenly.  "  Will  you  swear 
that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  like.     I  mean  it." 

Dick  and  Cicely  went  out  of  the  room.  "  Well, 
Graham,  I  hope  you'll  get  her  now  I've  lost  her," 
said  Mackenzie. 

Jim  took  no  notice  of  him,  but  went  out  after  the 
other  two. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

AFTER  THE  STORM 

Cicely  had  an  air  at  once  ashamed  and  defiant  as  she 
stepped  up  into  the  cab.  Dick  gave  the  cabman  the 
address.  "  See  you  to-night,  then,"  he  said  to  Jim. 
It  had  been  arranged  between  them  that  when  Cicely 
had  been  rescued  Jim  should  fall  out,  as  it  were, 
for  a  time.  "  Good-bye,  Cicely,"  he  said.  "  Give 
my  love  to  Walter  and  Muriel,"  and  walked  off  down 
the  pavement. 

"  You  can  tell  me  now,"  said  Dick,  when  the  cab 
had  started,  "  what  went  wrong  with  you  to  make 
you  do  such  a  thing  as  that." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  anything,"  said  Cicely. 
"  I  know  I  have  made  a  mistake,  and  I  know  you 
will  punish  me  for  it — you  and  father  and  the  boys. 
You  can  do  what  you  like,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
help  you." 

Tears  of  self-pity  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  her  face 
was  now  very  white  and  tired,  but  very  childish  too. 
Dick  was  struck  with  some  compunction.  "  I  dare 
say  you  have  had  enough  for  the  present,"  he  said, 
not  unkindly.  "  But  how  you  could ! — a  low-bred 
swine  like  that !  " 

Cicely  set  her  lips  obstinately.  She  knew  very 
well  that  this  weapon  would  be  used  freely  in  what 

253 


J^54     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

she  had  called  her  punishment.  Men  like  Dick  sifted 
other  men  with  a  narrow  mesh.  A  good  many 
of  those  whom  a  woman  might  accept  and  even  ad- 
mire, if  left  to  herself,  would  not  pass  through  it. 
Certainly  Mackenzie  wouldn't.  She  would  have  had 
to  suffer  for  running  away,  but  she  would  suffer 
far  more  for  running  away  with  "  a  bounder."  And 
what  made  it  harder  was  that,  although  she  didn't 
know  it  yet,  in  the  trying  battle  that  had  just  been 
waged  over  her,  the  sieve  of  her  own  perceptions 
had  narrowed,  and  Mackenzie,  now,  would  not  have 
passed  through  that.  She  would  presently  be  effec- 
tually punished  there,  if  Dick  and  the  rest  should 
leave  her  alone  entirely. 

Dick  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  ravenously  de- 
sirous of  a  cigarette,  and  having  lit  one  and  inhaled 
a  few  draughts  of  smoke,  felt  the  atmosphere  lighter. 

"  By  Jove,  that  was  a  tussle,"  he  said.  "  He's  a 
dangerous  fellow,  that.  You'll  thank  me,  some  day, 
Cicely,  for  getting  you  away  from  him." 

"  You  didn't  get  me  away,"  said  Cicely.  "  You 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it." 

"Eh?"  said  Dick. 

"  If  you  had  been  just  a  little  kind  I  would  have 
come  with  you  the  moment  you  came  into  the  room. 
I  was  longing  for  some  one  from  home.  You  made 
it  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  come.  If 
I  had  stayed  with  him  it  would  have  been  your  fault. 
I'll  never  forgive  you  for  the  way  you  treated  me, 
Dick.     And  you  may  do  what  you  like  to  me  now, 


AFTER    THE    STORM  255 

and  father  may  do  what  he  likes.  Nothing  can  be 
worse  than  that." 

She  poured  out  her  words  hurriedly,  and  only  the 
restraint  that  comes  with  a  seat  in  a  hansom  cab 
within  full  view  of  the  populace  of  Camden  Town 
prevented  her  bursting  into  hysterical  tears. 

Dick  would  rather  have  ridden  up  to  the  mouth 
of  a  cannon  than  drive  through  crowded  streets  with 
a  woman  making  a  scene,  so  he  said,  "  Oh,  for  God's 
sake  keep  quiet  now,"  and  kept  quiet  himself,  with 
something  to  think  about. 

Presently  he  said,  "  No  one  knows  at  home  yet 
that  3'ou  aren't  with  Muriel.  You've  got  me  to 
thank  for  that,  at  any  rate." 

Cicely  blushed  with  her  sudden  great  relief,  but 
went  pale  again  directly.  "  I  wrote  to  mother,"  she 
said.  "  She  would  get  the  letter  early  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  I've  got  the  letter  in  my  pocket,"  said  Dick. 
"  She  hasn't  seen  it." 

"  You  opened  my  letter  to  mother ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  lucky  for  you  too.  It  was  how 
we  found  you." 

She  let  that  pass.  It  was  of  no  interest  to  her 
then  to  learn  by  what  chance  they  had  found  her. 
"  Then  do  you  really  mean  that  they  don't  know  at 
home  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  They  know  you  have  gone  to  Muriel — you'll  be 
there  in  half  an  hour — and  nothing  else." 


S56     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  O  Dick,  then  you  won't  tell  them,"  she  cried,  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve.  "  You  can't  be  so  cruel  as  to 
tell  them." 

She  had  the  crowded  streets  to  thank  for  Dick's 
quick  answer,  "  I'm  not  going  to  tell  them.  Do, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  keep  quiet." 

She  leant  back  against  the  cushions.  She  had  the 
giddy  feeling  of  a  man  who  has  slipped  on  the  verge 
of  a  great  height,  and  saved  himself. 

"  You'll  have  plenty  to  answer  for  as  it  is,"  said 
Dick,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  You've  run  away,  though 
you've  only  run  away  to  Muriel.  You  won't  get  let 
down  easily." 

She  was  not  dismayed  at  that.  The  other  peril, 
surmounted,  was  so  crushingly  greater.  And  there 
had  been  reasons  for  her  running  away,  even  if  she 
had  not  run  away  to  Mackenzie.  She  stood  by  them 
later  and  they  helped  her  to  forget  Mackenzie's  share 
in  the  flight.  But  now  she  could  only  lean  back 
and  taste  the  blessed  relief  that  Dick  had  given 
her. 

"  Do  Walter  and  Muriel  know  I  am  coming?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I  sent  them  a  wire  from  Ganton  this  morning  to 
say  that  I  should  probably  bring  you,  and  they 
weren't  to  answer  a  wire  from  home,  if  one  came, 
till  they  had  heard  from  me.  You've  made  me 
stretch  my  brains  since  last  night.  Cicely.  You'd 
have  been  pretty  well  in  the  ark  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  me." 


AFTER   THE    STORM  257 

"You  didn't  help  me  for  my  own  sake  though," 
said  Cicely. 

Both  of  them  spoke  as  if  they  were  carrying  on 
a  conversation  about  nothing  in  particular.  Their 
capacity  for  disturbing  discussion  was  exhausted  for 
the  time.  Cicely  felt  a  faint  anticipatory  pleasure  in 
going  to  Muriel's  new  house,  and  Dick  said,  "  This 
must  be  Melbury  Park.  Funny  sort  of  place  to  find 
your  relations  in !  " 

But  Adelaide  Avenue,  to  which  the  cabman  had 
been  directed,  did  not  quite  bear  out  the  Squire's 
impressions,  nor  even  the  Rector's,  of  the  dreary 
suburb;  and  lying,  as  it  did,  behind  the  miles  of 
shop-fronts,  mean  or  vulgarly  inviting,  which  they 
had  traversed,  and  away  from  the  business  of  the 
great  railway  which  gave  the  name  of  Melbury  Park, 
its  sole  significance  to  many  besides  the  Squire,  it 
seemed  quiet,  and  even  inviting.  It  curved  be- 
tween a  double  row  of  well-grown  limes.  Each  house, 
or  pair  of  houses,  had  a  little  garden  in  front  and 
a  bigger  one  behind,  and  most  of  the  houses  were 
of  an  earher  date  than  the  modem  red  brick 
suburban  villa.  They  were  ugly  enough,  with  their 
stucco  fronts  and  the  steps  leading  up  to  their  front 
doors,  but  they  were  respectable  and  established, 
and  there  were  trees  behind  them,  and  big,  if  dingy, 
shrubs  inside  their  gates. 

Walter's  house  stood  at  a  comer  where  a  new 
road  had  been  cut  through.  This  was  lined  on  each 
side   with    a    row    of   two-storied   villas   behind   low 


S58     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

wooden  palings,  of  which  the  owner,  in  describing 
them,  had  taken  liberties  with  the  name  of  Queen 
Anne.  But  Walter's  house  and  the  one  adjoining  it 
in  the  Avenue,  though  built  in  the  same  style,  or 
with  the  same  lack  of  it,  were  much  bigger,  and  had 
divided  between  them  an  old  garden  of  a  quarter  of 
an  acre,  which,  although  it  would  have  been  nothing 
much  at  Kencote,  almost  attained  to  the  dignity  of 
"  grounds  "  at  Melbury  Park. 

There  was  a  red  lamp  by  the  front  gate,  and  as 
they  drew  up  before  it,  Muriel  came  out  under  a 
gabled  porch  draped  with  Virginia  creeper  and  hur- 
ried to  welcome  them  to  her  married  home. 

She  looked  blooming,  as  a  bride  should,  even  on 
this  hot  August  day  in  London.  She  wore  a  frock 
of  light  holland,  and  it  looked  somehow  different 
from  the  frocks  of  holland  or  of  white  drill  which 
Cicely  had  idly  observed  in  some  numbers  as  she 
had  driven  through  the  streets  and  roads  of  the 
suburb.  She  had  a  choking  sensation  as  she  saw 
Muriel's  eager  face,  and  her  neat  dress,  just  as  she 
might  have  worn  it  at  home. 

"  Hullo,  Dick,"  said  Muriel.  "  Walter  will  be  in 
to  lunch.  0  Cicely,  it  is  jolly  to  see  you  again.  But 
where's  your  luggage.?  You've  come  to  stay.  Why, 
you're  looking  miserable,  my  dear !  What  on  earth's 
the  matter.?  And  what  did  Mr.  Clinton's  telegram 
mean,  and  Dick's.  We  haven't  wired  yet,  but  we 
must." 

They  had  walked  up  the  short  garden  path,  leav- 


AFTER   THE    STORM  259 

ing  Dick  to  settle  with  the  cabman,  who  had  been 
nerving  himself  for  a  tussle,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  it  unnecessary. 

"  I'm  in  disgrace,  Muriel,"  said  Cicely.  "  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  when  we  are  alone,  if  Dick  doesn't 
first." 

Muriel  threw  a  penetrating  look  at  her  and  then 
turned  to  Dick,  who  said,  with  a  grin,  "  This  is  the 
drive,  is  it,  Muriel?  " 

"  You  are  not  going  to  laugh  at  my  house,  Dick," 
said  Muriel.  "  You'll  be  quite  as  comfortable  here 
as  anywhere.     Come  in.     This  is  the  hall." 

"  No,  not  really?  "  said  Dick.     "  By  Jove!  " 

It  was  not  much  of  a  hall,  the  style  of  Queen  Anne 
as  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  Melbury  Park 
not  being  accustomed  to  effloresce  in  halls ;  but  a 
green  Morris  paper,  a  blue  Morris  carpet,  and  white 
enamelled  woodwork  had  brought  it  into  some 
grudging  semblance  of  welcoming  a  visitor.  The 
more  cultured  ladies  of  Melbury  Park  in  discussing 
it  had  called  it  "  artistic,  but  slightly  bizarre,''  a 
phrase  which  was  intended  to  combine  a  guarded 
appreciation  of  novelty  with  a  more  solid  preference 
for  sanitary  wallpaper,  figured  oilcloth  and  paint  of 
what  they  called  "  dull  art  colours." 

"  Look  at  my  callers,"  said  Muriel,  indicating  a 
china  bowl  on  a  narrow  mahogany  table  that  was 
full  to  the  brim  with  visiting  cards.  "  I  can  assure 
you  I'm  the  person  to  know  here.  No  sniffing  at 
a  doctor's  wife  in  Melbury  Park,  Dick." 


260     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  By  Jove !  "  said  Dick.  "  You're  getting  into 
society." 

"  My  dear  Dick,  don't  I  tell  you,  I  am  society. 
Oh,  good  gracious,  I  was  forgetting.  Walter  told 
me  to  send  a  telegram  to  Kencote  the  very  moment 
you  came.  Mr.  Clinton  wired  at  eight  o'clock  this 
morning  and  it's  half-past  twelve  now." 

Cicely  turned  away,  and  Dick  became  serious 
again.  "Where's  the  wire?"  he  asked.  "I'll  an- 
swer it.'^ 

"  Come  into  Walter's  room,"  said  Muriel,  "  there 
are  forms  there." 

"  I  wonder  he  hasn't  wired  again,"  said  Dick,  and 
as  he  spoke  a  telegraph  boy  came  up  to  the  open  door. 

"  Cannot  understand  why  no  reply  to  telegram. 
Excessively  annoyed.  Wire  at  once. — Edwaed 
Clinton,"  ran  the  Squire's  second  message,  and  his 
first,  which  Muriel  handed  to  Dick :  "  Is  Cicely  with 
you.  Most  annoyed.  Wire  immediately. — Edward 
Clinton." 

"  I'll  soothe  him,"  said  Dick,  and  he  wrote, 
"  Cicely  here.  Wanted  change.  Is  writing.  Wal- 
ter's reply  must  have  miscarried. — Dick."  "  An- 
other lie,"  he  said  composedly. 

"  I  want  some  clothes  sent,  please,  Dick,"  said 
Cicely  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"  Better  tell  'em  to  send  Miles  up,"  said  Dick, 
considering. 


AFTER   THE    STORM  261 

"  No,  I  don't  want  Miles,"  said  Cicely,  and  Dick 
added,  "  Please  tell  Miles  send  Cicely  clothes  for 
week  this  afternoon."  "  I  suppose  you  can  put  her 
up  for  a  week,  Muriel,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  put  her  up  for  a  month,  if  she'll  stay,"  said 
Muriel,  putting  her  arm  into  Cicely's,  and  the 
amended  telegram  was  despatched. 

"  Now  come  and  see  my  drawing-room,"  said 
Muriel,  "  and  then  you  can  look  after  yourself,  Dick, 
till  Walter  comes  home,  and  I  will  take  Cicely  to  her 
room." 

The  drawing-room  opened  on  to  a  garden,  wonder- 
fully green  and  shady  considering  where  it  was.  The 
white  walls  and  the  chintz-covered  chairs  and  sofa 
had  again  struck  the  cultured  ladies  of  Melbury  Park 
as  "  artistic  but  slightly  bizarre,''  but  the  air  of 
richness  imparted  by  the  numberless  hymeneal  offer- 
ings of  Walter's  and  Muriel's  friends  and  relations 
had  given  them  a  pleasant  subject  for  conversation. 
Their  opinion  was  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  have 
such  valuable  things  lying  about,  but  if  "  the  doc- 
tor "  collected  them  and  took  them  up  to  put  under 
his  bed  every  night  it  would  not  so  much  matter. 

"  They  all  tell  me  that  Dr.  Pringle  used  this  room 
as  a  dining-room,"  said  Muriel.  "  It  is  the  first  thing 
they  say,  and  it  breaks  the  ice.  We  get  on  won- 
derfully well  after  that ;  but  it  is  a  pretty  room,  isn't 
it,  Dick.?  " 

She  had  her  arm  in  Cicely's,  and  pressed  it  some- 
times as  she  talked,  but  she  did  not  talk  to  her. 


262     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  It's  an  uncommonly  pretty  room,"  said  Dick. 
"  Might  be  in  Grosvenor  Square.  Where  did  you 
and  Walter  get  your  ideas  of  furnishing  from, 
Muriel?  We  don't  run  to  this  sort  of  thing  at  Ken- 
cote  and  Mountfield.  Content  with  what  our  fore- 
fathers have  taught  us,  eh?  " 

"  Oh,  we  know  what's  what,  all  right,"  said  Muriel. 
"  We  have  seen  a  few  pretty  rooms,  between  us. 
Now  I'm  going  to  take  Cicely  upstairs.  You  can 
wander  about  if  you  like,  Dick,  and  there  are 
cigarettes  and  things  in  Walter's  room." 

"  I'll  explore  the  gay  parterre,"  said  Dick.  Then 
he  turned  to  Cicely  and  took  hold  of  her  chin  be- 
tween his  thumb  and  finger.  "  Look  here,  don't  you 
worry  any  more,  old  lady,"  he  said  kindly.  "  You've 
been  a  little  fool,  and  you've  had  a  knock.  Tell 
Muriel  about  it  and  I'll  tell  Walter.  Nobody  else 
need  know." 

She  clung  to  him,  crying.  "  0  Dick,"  she  said,  "  if 
you  had  only  spoken  to  me  like  that  at  first !  " 

"  Well,  if  I  had,"  said  Dick,  "  I  should  have  been 
in  a  devil  of  a  temper  now.  As  it  is  I've  worked  it 
off.  There,  run  along.  You've  nothing  to  cry  for 
now."  He  kissed  her,  which  was  an  unusual  attention 
on  his  part,  and  went  through  the  door  into  the 
garden.     Muriel  and  Cicely  went  upstairs  together. 

Dick  soon  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  garden 
and  went  into  the  house  again  and  into  Walter's 
room.  It  had  red  walls  and  a  Turkey  carpet.  There 
was   a  big  American  desk,  a  sofa   and  easy-chairs 


AFTER   THE    STORM  S6S 

and  three  Chippendale  chairs,  all  confined  in  rather 
a  small  space.  There  was  a  low  bookcase  along  one 
wall,  and  above  it  framed  school  and  college  photo- 
graphs ;  on  the  other  walls  were  prints  from  pictures 
at  Kencote.  They  were  the  only  things  in  the  room, 
except  the  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  a  table 
with  a  heavy  silver  cigarette  box,  and  other  smoking 
apparatus,  that  lightened  its  workmanlike  air.  But 
Dick  was  not  apt  to  be  affected  by  the  air  of  a 
room.  He  sat  down  in  the  easy-chair  and  stretched 
his  long  legs  in  front  of  him,  and  thought  over  the 
occurrences  of  the  morning. 

He  was  rather  surprised  to  find  himself  in  so 
equable  a  frame  of  mind.  His  anger  against  Cicely 
had  gradually  worked  up  since  the  previous  evening 
until,  when  he  had  seen  her  in  the  room  with  Mac- 
kenzie, he  could  have  taken  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
shaken  her,  with  clenched  teeth.  She  had  done  a  dis- 
graceful thing;  she,  a  girl,  had  taken  the  sacred 
name  of  Clinton  in  her  hands  and  thrown  it  to  the 
mob  to  worry.  That  he  had  skilfully  caught  and 
saved  it  before  it  had  reached  them  did  not  make  her 
crime  any  the  less. 

But  he  could  not  now  regain — he  tested  his 
capacity  to  regain,  out  of  curiosity — his  feeling  of 
outraged  anger  against  her.  Curious  that,  in  the 
train,  he  had  felt  no  very  great  annoyance  against 
Mackenzie.  He  asked  himself  if  he  hadn't  gone 
rather  near  to  admiring  the  decisive  stroke  he  had 
played,   which   few   men   would   have   attempted   on 


S64     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

such  an  almost  complete  lack  of  opportunity.  But 
face  to  face  with  him  his  dislike  and  resentment  had 
flared  up.  His  anger  now  came  readily  enough 
when  he  thought  of  Mackenzie,  and  he  found  himself 
wishing  ardently  for  another  chance  of  showing  it 
effectively.  It  was  this,  no  doubt,  that  had  softened 
him  towards  his  little  sister,  whom  he  loved  in  his 
patronising  way.  The  fellow  had  got  hold  of  her. 
She  was  a  little  fool,  but  it  was  the  man  who  was 
to  blame.  And  his  own  resource  had  averted  the 
danger  of  scandal,  which  he  dreaded  like  any  woman. 
He  could  not  but  be  rather  pleased  with  himself  for 
the  way  in  which  he  had  carried  through  his  job, 
and  Cicely  gained  the  advantage  of  his  self-com- 
mendation. There  was  one  thing,  though — his  father 
must  never  know.  The  fat  would  be  in  the  fire  then 
with  a  vengeance. 

Turning  over  these  things  in  his  mind,  Dick 
dropped  off  into  a  light  doze,  from  which  he  was 
awakened  by  the  entrance  of  Walter.  Walter  wore 
a  tall  hat  and  a  morning  coat.  It  was  August  and 
it  was  very  hot,  and  in  Bond  Street  he  would  have 
worn  a  flannel  suit  and  a  straw  hat.  But  if  he  did 
that  here  his  patients  would  think  that  he  thought 
anything  good  enough  for  them.  There  were  penal- 
ties attached  to  the  publication  of  that  list  of  wed- 
ding presents  in  the  Melhury  Park  Chronicle  and 
North  London  Intelligencer,  and  he  had  been  warned 
of  these  and  sundry  other  matters.  He  was  not 
free    of   the    tiresome    side-issues    of   his    profession 


AFTER   THE    STORM  ^65 

even  in  Melbury  Park.  "  Hullo,  Dick,  old  chap !  " 
he  said  as  he  came  in  with  cheerful  alacrity.  "  Is 
Cicely  here,  and  what  has  happened.'^  " 

"Hullo,  Walter!"  said  Dick.  "Yes,  Cicely  is 
here  and  I  have  wired  to  the  governor.  She  has  led 
us  a  nice  dance,  that  young  woman.  But  it's  all 
over  now." 

"What  has  she  done?  Run  away  with  some 
fellow?" 

"  That's  just  what  she  did  do.  If  I  hadn't  been 
pretty  quick  off  the  post  she'd  have  been  married 
to  him  by  this  time." 

Walter  sat  down  in  the  chair  at  his  writing-table. 
His  face  had  grown  rather  serious.  He  looked  as  if 
he  were  prepared  to  receive  the  confidences  of  a 
patient. 

"  Who  did  she  go  off  with?  "  he  asked. 

Dick  took  a  cigarette  from  the  silver  box,  and  lit 
it.  "  Mr.  Ronald  Mackenzie,"  he  said,  as  he  threw 
the  match  into  the  fireplace. 

"  Ronald  Mackenzie !  Where  did  she  pick  him 
up?" 

"  He  picked  her  up.  He  was  staying  at  Mount- 
field." 

"  I  know,  but  he  must  have  seen  her  before.  He 
can't  have  persuaded  her  in  five  minutes." 

"  Just  what  I  thought.  But  he  did ;  damn  him !  " 
Then  he  told  Walter  everything  that  had  happened, 
in  his  easy,  leisurely  way.  "  And  the  great  thing 
now  is  to  keep  it  from  the  governor,"  he  ended  up. 


^66     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  Really,  it's  pretty  strong,"  said  Walter,  after  a 
short  pause.  "  Fancy  Cicely !  I  can't  see  her  doing 
a  thing  like  that." 

"  I  could  have  boxed  her  ears  with  pleasure  when 
I  first  heard  of  it,"  said  Dick.  "  But  somehow  I 
don't  feel  so  annoyed  with  her  now.  Poor  little 
beggar!  I  suppose  it's  getting  her  away  from  that 
brute.  He'd  frightened  her  silly.  He  nearly  got  her, 
even  when  we  were  there  fighting  him." 

"  But  what  about  poor  old  Jim  ?  "  asked  Walter. 
"  It's  too  bad  of  her,  you  know,  Dick.  She  was 
engaged  to  Jim." 

"  Well,  it  was  a  sort  of  engagement.  But  I  don't 
blame  her  much  there.  If  Jim  had  gone  ofF  and 
married  some  other  girl  I  don't  know  that  any  of  us 
would  have  been  very  surprised." 

"  I  should." 

"  Well,  you  know  him  better  than  I  do,  of  course. 
I  must  say,  when  he  told  me  in  the  train  coming  up 
that  he  was  as  much  struck  on  Cicely  as  ever,  it 
surprised  me.     He's  a  funny  fellow." 

"  He's  one  of  the  best,"  said  Walter.  "  But  he 
keeps  his  feelings  to  himself.  He  has  always  talked 
to  me  about  Cicely,  but  I  know  he  hasn't  talked  to 
anybody  else,  because  Muriel  was  just  as  surprised 
as  you  were  when  I  told  her  how  the  land  lay." 

"  He  told  Mackenzie — that's  the  odd  thing,"  said 
Dick. 

"Did  he?" 

"  Yes.    It  makes  the  beast's  action  all  the  worse." 


AFTER    THE    STORM  267 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  that.  Perhaps  he  had 
a  suspicion  and  gave  him  a  warning." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  He  let  him  go  off  after  her  on 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  didn't  think  anything  of  it. 
However,  he's  had  a  shaking  up.  He  won't  let  her 
go  now." 

"Does  he  want  to  marry  her  still?" 

"  O  Lord,  yes,  more  than  ever.  That's  something 
to  be  thankful  for.  It  will  keep  the  governor  quiet 
if  we  can  hurry  it  on  a  bit." 

"  But  he's  not  to  know." 

"  He  knows  she  ran  away  here,  without  bringing 
any  clothes.  That's  got  to  be  explained.  It's 
enough  for  the  governor,  isn't  it.'^" 

"  I  should  think  so.  Enough  to  go  on  with. 
Didn't  Jim  want  to  throttle  that  fellow.?  " 

"  He  did  before  we  got  there,  but  he  knew  he 
couldn't  do  anything.  It  would  only  have  come 
back  on  Cicely.  He  behaved  jolly  well,  Jim  did. 
He  didn't  take  the  smallest  notice  of  Mackenzie  from 
first  to  last,  but  he  talked  to  Cicely  like  a  father. 
She  says — I  don't  say  it,  mind  you — that  it  was  Jim 
who  got  her  away  from  him;  she  wouldn't  have 
come  for  me."  Dick  laughed.  "  I  dare  say  we  both 
had  something  to  do  with  it,"  he  said.  "  I  got  in  a 
few  home  truths.  I  think  Mr.  Ronald  Mackenzie 
will  be  rather  sorry  he  came  poaching  on  our  land 
when  he  turns  it  over  in  his  mind." 

"  Well,"  said  Walter,  rising,  as  the  luncheon  bell 
rang,  "  it's  a  funny  business  altogether.     You  must 


268     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

tell  me  more  later.  Like  a  wash,  Dick?  Is  Cicely 
going  to  stay  here  for  a  bit?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Dick,  as  they  went  out  of  the 
room.  "  Muriel  says  she'll  keep  her.  We've  wired 
for  clothes."  He  lowered  his  voice  as  they  went 
upstairs.  "  You  must  go  easy  with  her  a  bit,  you 
and  Muriel,"  he  said.  "  She's  been  touched  on 
the  raw.  You'll  find  her  in  rather  an  excited 
state." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  worry  her,"  said  Walter.  "  But  I 
think  she's  behaved  badly  to  Jim  all  the  same." 

But  Walter's  manner  towards  his  erring  sister, 
when  they  met  in  the  dining-room,  showed  no  sign 
of  his  feelings,  if  they  were  resentful  on  behalf  of  his 
friend.  She  was  there  with  Muriel  when  he  and 
Dick  came  down.  She  was  pale,  and  it  was  plain 
that  she  had  been  crying,  but  the  parlour-maid  was 
standing  by  the  sideboard,  and  the  two  girls  were 
talking  by  the  window  as  if  they  had  not  just  come 
from  a  long  talk  which  had  disturbed  them  both 
profoundly. 

"  Well,  Cicely,"  said  Walter.  "  Come  to  see  us  at 
last!  You  don't  look  very  fit,  but  you've  come 
to  the  right  man  to  cure  you."  Cicely  kissed  him 
gratefully,  and  they  sat  down  at  the  table. 

The  dining-room  was  Sheraton — good  Sheraton. 
On  the  walls  were  a  plain  blue  paper  and  some  more 
prints.  The  silver  and  glass  on  the  fresh  cloth  and 
on  the  sideboard  were  as  bright  as  possible,  for 
Muriel's  parlour-maid  was  a  treasure.     She  earned 


AFTER   THE    STORM  269 

high  wages,  or  she  would  not  have  demeaned  herself 
by  going  into  service  at  Melbury  Park,  where,  how- 
ever, she  had  a  young  man.  The  cook  was  also  a 
treasure,  and  the  luncheon  she  served  up  would  not 
have  disgraced  Kencote,  where  what  is  called  "  a  good 
table  "  was  kept.  It  was  all  great  fun — to  Muriel, 
and  would  have  been  to  Cicely  too  at  any  other  time. 
The  little  house  was  beautifully  appointed,  and 
"  run  "  more  in  the  style  of  a  little  house  in  Mayfair 
than  in  Melbury  Park.  Muriel,  at  any  rate,  was 
completely  happy  in  her  surroundings. 

They  drank  their  coffee  in  the  veranda  outside 
the  drawing-room  window.  They  could  hear  the 
trains  and  the  trams  in  the  distance,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  a  favourite  pursuit  of  the  youths  of  Melbury 
Park  to  rattle  sticks  along  the  oak  fencing  of  the 
garden,  but  otherwise  they  were  shut  in  in  a  little 
oasis  of  green  and  could  not  be  seen  or  overheard 
by  anybody.  There  were  certain  things  to  be  said, 
but  no  one  seemed  now  to  wish  to  refer  to  Cicely's 
escapade,  the  sharp  effect  of  which  had  been  over- 
laid by  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  the  luncheon 
table. 

It  was  Cicely  herself  who  broke  the  ice.  She  asked 
Dick  nervously  when  he  was  going  back  to  Kencote. 

"  Oh,  to-morrow,  I  think,"  said  Dick.  "  Nothing 
to  stay  up  here  for." 

Muriel  said,  "  Cicely  would  like  Mrs.  Clinton  to 
come  up.  She  doesn't  want  to  ask  her  in  her  letter. 
Will  you  ask  her,  Dick.'^  " 


£70     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

Dick  hesitated.  "  Do  you  want  to  tell  mother — 
about  it  ?  "  he  asked  of  Cicely. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  I  think  you  had  much  better  not.  It'll 
only  worry  her,  and  she  need  never  know." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  her,"  said  Cicely  doggedly. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  your  telling  her,  if  you  want  to," 
said  Dick,  after  a  pause,  "  but  it's  dangerous.  If 
the  governor  suspected  anything  and  got  it  out  of 
her " 

"  Oh,  she  wouldn't  tell  Mr.  Clinton,"  said  Muriel. 
"  I  think  Cicely  is  quite  right  to  tell  her.  Don't  you, 
Walter.?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Walter.  "  But  I  think  it's 
a  risk.  I  quite  agree  with  Dick.  It  must  be  kept 
from  the  governor.  It's  for  your  own  sake,  you 
know,  Cicely." 

"  None  of  you  boys  know  mother  in  the  least," 
said  Cicely,  in  some  excitement.  "  She's  a  woman, 
and  so  you  think  she  doesn't  count  at  all.  She 
counts  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  I  want  her." 

"  All  right,  my  dear,"  said  Walter  kindly.  "  We 
only  want  to  do  what's  best  for  you.  Don't  upset 
yourself.  And  you're  all  right  with  Muriel  and  me, 
you  know." 

"  You're  both  awfully  kind,"  said  Cicely,  more 
calmly,  "  and  so  is  Dick  now.  But  I  do  want  mother 
to  come,  and  I  know  she  wouldn't  tell  father." 

"  I  know  it  too,"  said  Muriel.  "  I  will  write  to  her 
to-night  and  ask  her;  only  we  thought  Mr.  Clinton 


AFTER    THE    STORM  «71 

might  make  some  objection,  and  you  could  get  over 
that,  Dick." 

"Oh,  I'll  get  over  that  all  right,"  said  Dick. 
"  Very  well,  she  shall  come.  Do  you  want  me  to 
tell  her  anything,  Cicely,  or  leave  it  all  to  you.?  " 

"  You  can  tell  her  what  I  did,"  said  Cicely  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  All  right.  I'll  break  it  gently.  Now  are  we  all 
going  to  Lord's,  or  are  you  two  going  to  stay  at 
home.-^  " 

"  Cicely  is  going  to  lie  down,"  said  Muriel,  "  and  I 
think  I  will  stay  at  home  and  look  after  her."  She 
threw  rather  a  longing  look  at  Walter.  He  didn't 
often  allow  himself  a  half  holiday,  and  she  liked  to 
spend  them  with  him. 

"  Don't  stay  for  me,  Muriel,"  Cicely  besought  her. 
"  I  shall  be  perfectly  all  right,  and  I'd  really  rather 
be  alone." 

"  No,"  said  Muriel,  after  another  look  at  Walter. 
"  I'm  going  to  stay  at  home."  And  she  wouldn't 
be  moved. 

Walter  telephoned  for  his  new  motor-car  and 
changed  his  clothes.  "  Do  you  know  why  Muriel 
wouldn't  come  with  us?"  he  asked,  when  he  and 
Dick  were  on  their  way.  ''  It  was  because  she 
thought  you  and  I  would  rather  sit  in  the  pavilion." 

"  So  we  would,"  said  Dick,  with  a  laugh.  "  But 
she's  a  trump,  that  girl." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    WHOLE    HOUSE    UPSET 

The  twins  arose  betimes  on  the  morning  after 
Cicely's  flight,  determined,  as  was  their  custom,  to 
enjoy  whatever  excitement,  legal,  or  within  limits 
illegal,  was  to  be  wrested  from  a  long  new  summer 
day,  but  quite  unaware  that  the  whole  house  around 
them  was  humming  with  excitement  already. 

For  upon  Dick's  departure  the  night  before  the 
Squire  had  thrown  caution  to  the  winds,  and  be- 
stirred himself,  as  he  said,  to  get  to  the  bottom  of 
things.  Not  content  with  Mrs.  Clinton's  report  of 
Miles's  statement,  which  was  simply  that  she  knew 
nothing,  he  had  "  had  Miles  up  "  and  cross-examined 
her  himself.  He  had  then  had  Probin  up,  the  head 
coachman,  who  would  have  known  if  Cicely  had  been 
driven  to  the  station,  which  it  was  fairly  obvious 
she  had  not  been.  He  also  had  Porter  the  butler 
up,  more  because  Porter  was  always  had  up  if  any- 
thing went  wrong  in  the  house  than  because  he  could 
be  expected  to  throw  any  light  on  what  had  hap- 
pened. And  when  the  groom  came  back  from  Mount- 
field  with  Dick's  note  to  Mrs.  Clinton,  late  as  it  was, 
he  had  him  up,  and  sent  him  down  again  to  spread 
his  news  and  his  suspicions  busily,  although  he  had 

272 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   273 

been  threatened  with  instant  dismissal  if  he  said  a 
word  to  anybody. 

Having  thus  satisfied  himself  of  what  he  knew 
already,  that  Cicely  had  walked  to  the  station  and 
had  taken  no  luggage  with  her,  and  having  opened 
up  the  necessary  channels  of  information,  so  that 
outdoor  and  indoor  servants  alike  now  knew  that 
Cicely  had  run  away  and  that  her  father  was  pre- 
pared, as  the  phrase  went,  to  raise  Cain  about  it, 
the  Squire  went  up  to  bed,  and  breaking  his  usual 
healthy  custom  of  going  to  sleep  immediately  he 
laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  rated  Mrs.  Clinton 
soundly  for  not  noticing  what  was  going  on  under  her 
very  nose.  "  I  can't  look  after  everything  in  the 
house  and  out  of  it  too,"  he  ended  up.  "  I  shall  be 
expected  to  see  that  the  twins  change  their  stockings 
when  they  get  their  feet  wet,  next.  Good-night, 
Nina.     God  bless  you." 

So,  to  return  to  the  twins ;  when  the  schoolroom 
maid  came  to  awaken  them  in  the  morning  and 
found  them,  as  was  usual,  nearly  dressed,  they 
learned,  for  the  first  time,  what  had  been  happening 
while  they  had  slept,  all  unconscious. 

"  Why  can't  you  call  us  in  proper  time,  Hannah.''  " 
said  Joan,  as  she  came  in.  "  We  told  you  we  wanted 
our  hot  water  at  half-past  three,  and  it  has  just 
struck  seven.  You'll  have  to  go  if  j^ou  can't  get 
up  in  time." 

Hannah  deposited  a  tray  containing  two  large 
cups  of  tea  and  some  generous  slices  of  bread  and 


274     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

butter  on  a  table  and  said  importantly,  "  It's  no 
time  to  joke  now,  Miss  Joan.  There's  Miss  Clinton 
missing,  and  most  of  us  kep'  awake  half  the  night 
wondering  what's  come  of  her." 

Hannah  had  not  before  succeeded  in  making  an 
impression  upon  her  young  mistresses,  but  she  suc- 
ceeded now.  Joan  and  Nancy  stared  at  her  with 
open  eyes,  and  gave  her  time  to  heighten  her  effects 
as  they  redounded  to  her  own  importance. 

"  But  I  can't  stop  talking  now,  miss,"  she  said. 
"  I'll  just  get  your  'ot  water  and  then  I  must  go  and 
'elp.  Here  I  stop  wasting  me  time,  and  don't  know 
that  something  hadn't  'appened  and  I  may  be 
wanted." 

"  You're  wanted  here,"  said  Joan.  "  What  do 
you  mean — Miss  Clinton  missing.^  Has  she  gone 
away  ? " 

"  I'll  just  tell  you  what  I  know,  Miss  Joan,"  said 
Hannah,  "  and  then  I  must  go  downstairs  and  'elp. 
I  was  going  along  the  passage  by  the  room  last 
night,  jest  when  they  was  ready  to  take  in  dinner, 
and  Mr.  Porter  came  along  and  says  to  me,  '  What 
are  you  doing  here?  '  Well,  of  course,  I  was  struck 
all  of  a  'eap,  because " 

"  Oh,  don't  let's  waste  time  with  her,"  interrupted 
Nancy,  "  let's  go  and  ask  Miss  Bird  what  it's  all 
about." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Miss  Nancy,"  cried  Hannah. 
**  I  was  telling  you " 

But  the  twins  were  at  the  door.     "  Lock  her  in," 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET  TiO 

said  Joan.  "  We  shall  want  her  when  we  come  back." 
And  they  locked  her  in,  to  the  great  damage  of  her 
dignity,  and  went  along  the  passage  to  the  room 
which  had  sheltered  Miss  Bird's  virgin  slumbers  for 
nearly  thirty  years.  They  were  at  first  refused 
admission,  but  upon  Joan's  saying  in  a  clear  voice 
outside  the  door,  "  We  want  to  know  about  Cicely. 
If  you  won't  tell  us  we  must  go  and  ask  the  servants," 
Miss  Bird  unlocked  the  door,  and  was  discovered  in 
a  dressing-gown  of  pink  flannel  with  her  hair  in  curl 
papers.  The  twins  were  too  eager  for  news  to  re- 
mark upon  these  phenomena,  and  allowed  Miss  Bird 
to  get  back  into  bed  while  they  sat  at  the  foot  of  it 
to  hear  her  story. 

"  Well,  you  must  know  some  time,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  "  and  to  say  that  you  will  ask  the  servants  is 
not  the  way  to  behave  as  you  know  very  well  and  I 
am  the  proper  person  to  come  to." 

"  Well,  we  have  come  to  you,"  said  Joan,  "  only 
you  wouldn't  let  us  in.  Now  tell  us.  Has  Cicely 
run  away  ?  " 

"  Really,  Joan,  that  is  a  most  foolish  question," 
said  Miss  Bird,  "  to  call  it  running  away  to  visit 
Walter  and  Muriel  her  oicti  brother  and  sister  too  as 
you  might  say  and  that  is  all  and  I  suppose  it  is 
that  Hannah  who  has  been  putting  ideas  into  your 
head  for  I  came  in  to  see  you  last  night  and  you 
knew  nothing  but  were  both  in  a  sweet  sleep  and  I 
often  think  that  if  you  could  see  yourselves  then  you 
would  be  more  careful  how  you  behave  and  espe- 


^76     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

cially  Nancy  for  it  is  innocence  and  goodness  itself 
and  a  pity  that  it  can't  be  so  sleeping  and  waking." 

"  I've  seen  Joan  asleep  and  she  looked  like  a  stuck 
pig,"  said  Nancy.  "  But  what  has  happened,  star- 
ling darling?  Do  tell  us.  Has  Cicely  just  gone  up 
to  stay  with  Muriel?     Is  that  all?" 

"  It  is  very  inconsiderate  of  Cicely,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  "  nobody  could  possibly  have  objected  to  her 
going  to  stay  with  Muriel  and  Miles  would  have 
packed  her  clothes  and  gone  up  to  London  with  her 
to  look  after  her  and  to  go  by  herself  without  a  word 
and  not  take  a  stitch  to  put  on  her  back  and  Mr. 
Clinton  in  the  greatest  anxiety  and  very  naturally 
annoyed  for  with  all  the  horses  in  the  stable  to  walk 
to  Bathgate  in  this  heat  for  from  Kencote  she  did 
not  go  one  of  the  men  was  sent  there  to  inquire  I 
wonder  at  her  doing  such  a  thing." 

"  Keep  the  facts  in  your  head  as  they  come, 
Joan,"  said  Nancy.  "  She  didn't  tell  anybody  she 
was  going.  She  didn't  take  any  clothes.  She  walked 
to  Bathgate,  I  suppose,  to  put  them  off  the  scent." 

"But  whatever  did  she  do  it  for?"  asked  Joan. 
"  Something  must  have  upset  her.  It  is  running 
away,  you  know.     I  wish  she  had  told  us  about  it." 

"  We'd  have  gone  with  her,"  said  Nancy.  "  She 
must  have   done   it   for  a  lark." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Joan.  This  was  one 
of  the  twins'  formulae.  It  meant,  "  There  are  serious 
things  in  life,"  and  was  more  often  used  by  Joan  than 
by  Nancy. 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   277 

"  Joan  how  often  am  I  to  tell  you  not  to  use  that 
expression?"  said  Miss  Bird,  "  I  may  speak  to  the 
winds  of  Heaven  for  all  the  effect  it  has  don't  you 
know  that  it  says  he  that  calleth  his  brother  thou 
fool  shall  be  in  danger  of  hell  fire?  " 

"  Nancy  isn't  my  brother,  and  I'll  take  the  risk," 
said  Joan.  "  Didn't  Cicely  tell  mother  that  she  was 
going?  " 

"  No  she  did  not  and  for  that  I  blame  her,"  said 
Miss  Bird.  "  Mrs.  Clinton  came  to  me  in  the  school- 
room as  I  was  finishing  my  dinner  and  although  her 
calmness  is  a  lesson  to  all  of  us  she  was  upset  as  I 
could  see  and  did  my  very  best  to  persuade  her  not 
to  worry." 

"  It's  too  bad  of  Cicely,"  said  Joan.  "  What  are 
they  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  Your  brother  Dick  went  up  to  London  by  the 
late  train  and  a  telegram  was  to  be  sent  the  -first 
thing  this  morning  to  relieve  all  anxiety  though 
with  Muriel  no  harm  can  come  to  Cicely  if  she  got 
there  safely  which  I  hope  and  trust  may  be  the  case 
although  to  go  about  London  by  herself  is  a  thing 
that  she  knows  she  would  not  be  allowed  to  do,  but 
there  I'm  saying  a  great  deal  too  much  to  you  Joan 
'n  Nancy  you  must  not  run  away  with  ideas  in  your 
head  Cicely  no  doubt  has  a  very  good  reason  for  what 
she  has  done  and  she  is  years  older  than  both  of  you 
and  you  must  not  ask  troublesome  questions  when 
you  go  downstairs  the  only  way  you  can  help  is  by 
holding  your  tongues  and  being  good  girls." 


278     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"  Oh,  of  course,  that's  the  moral  of  it,"  said 
Nancj.  "  If  the  roof  were  to  fall  in  all  we  should 
have  to  do  would  be  to  be  good  girls  and  it  would  get 
stuck  on  again.  Joan,  I'm  hungry ;  I  must  go  and 
finish  my  bread  and  butter." 

"  Thank  you,  starling  darling,  for  telling  us,"  said 
Joan,  rising  from  her  seat  on  the  bed.  "  It  seems 
very  odd,  but  I  dare  say  we  shall  get  to  the  bottom 
of  it  somehow.  Of  course  we  shan't  be  able  to  do 
any   lessons    to-day." 

"  Oh,  indeed  Joan  the  very  hest  thing  we  can  do 

to  show  we "  began  Miss  Bird,  but  the  twins 

were  already  out  of  the  room. 

They  had  to  wait  some  little  time  before  they  could 
satisfy  their  curiosity  any  further,  because,  in  spite 
of  their  threat  to  Miss  Bird,  and  the  excellent  re- 
lations upon  which  they  stood  with  all  the  servants 
in  the  house,  they  were  not  in  the  habit  of  discuss- 
ing family  affairs  with  them,  and  this  was  a  family 
affair  of  somewhat  portentous  bearings.  They  kept 
Hannah  busy  about  their  persons  and  refused  to  let 
her  open  her  mouth  until  they  were  quite  dressed, 
and  when  they  had  let  themselves  loose  on  the  house 
for  the  day  paid  a  visit  to  Cicely's  room. 

Its  emptiness  and  the  untouched  bed  sobered  them 
a  little.  "  What  did  she  do  it  for  ?  "  exclaimed  Joan, 
as  they  stood  before  the  dressing-table  upon  which 
all  the  pretty  silver  toilette  articles  lying  just  as 
usual  seemed  to  give  the  last  unaccountable  touch  of 
reality  to  the  sudden  flight.     "  Nancy,  do  you  think 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   279 

it  could  have  been  because  she  didn't  want  to  marry 
Jim?" 

"  Or  because  Jim  didn't  want  to  marry  her,"  sug- 
gested Nancy. 

But  neither  suggestion  carried  conviction.  They 
looked  about  them  and  had  nothing  to  say.  Their 
sister,  who  in  some  ways  was  so  near  to  them,  had 
in  this  receded  immeasurably  from  their  standpoint. 
They  were  face  to  face  with  one  of  those  mysterious 
happenings  amongst  grown  ups  of  which  the  springs 
were  outside  the  world  as  they  knew  it.  And  Cicely 
was  grown  up,  and  she  and  they,  although  there  was 
so  much  that  they  had  in  common,  were  different, 
not  only  in  the  amount  but  in  the  quality  of  their 
experience  of  life. 

They  always  w^ent  in  to  their  mother  at  eight 
o'clock,  but  were  not  allowed  to  go  before.  They 
did  not  want  to  go  out  of  doors  while  so  much  was 
happening  within,  nor  to  stay  in  their  schoolroom, 
which  was  the  last  place  to  which  news  would  be 
brought;  so  they  perambulated  the  hall  and  the 
downstairs  rooms  and  got  in  the  way  of  the  maids 
who  were  busy  with  them.  And  at  a  quarter  to  eight 
were  surprised  by  their  father's  entrance  into  the 
library,  where  they  happened  to  be  sitting  for  the 
moment. 

Their  surprise  was  no  greater  than  his,  nor  was  it 
so  effectively  expressed.  He  saw  at  once,  and  said 
so,  that  they  were  up  to  some  mischief,  and  he  would 
not  have  it,  did  they  understand  that.? 


280     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 


(( 


We  were  only  sitting  talking,  father,"  said  Joan. 
*'  There  was  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"  I  won't  have  this  room  used  as  a  common  sitting- 
room,"  said  the  Squire.  "  Now  go,  and  don't  let  me 
catch  you  in  here  again." 

The  twins  went  out  into  the  big  hall.  "  Why 
couldn't  you  cry  a  little  at  being  spoke  to  like  that.?  " 
said  Nancy.    "  He  would  have  told  us  everything." 

"  That's  worn  out,"  replied  Joan.  "  The  last  time 
I  did  it  he  only  said,  '  For  God's  sake  don't  begin  to 
snivel.'     Besides  I  was  rather  frightened." 

Just  then  the  Squire  opened  his  door  suddenly. 
The  twins  both  jumped.  But  he  only  said,  "  Oh, 
you're  there.     Come  in  here,  and  shut  the  door." 

They  went  in.  "  Now  look  here,"  said  the  Squire, 
''  you  are  old  enough  now  to  look  at  things  in  a 
sensible  light.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  that  your 
sister  has  taken  it  upon  herself  to  take  herself  off 
without  a  with  your  leave  or  by  your  leave  and  has 
turned  the  whole  house  topsy-turvy — eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  the  twins  dutifully. 

"Who  told  you— eh.?" 

"  Miss  Bird,  father." 

"  I  wish  Miss  Bird  would  mind  her  own  business," 
said  the  Squire.     "  What  did  she  tell  you  for?  " 

"  Because  she  wanted  us  to  be  good  girls,  and  not 
worry  you  with  questions,"  replied  Nancy. 

"Oh!  Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  Squire, 
mollified. 

"  Now  what  I  want  to  know  is — did  Cicely  say 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   281 

anything  to  either   of  you   about  going  away  like 
this?" 

"  Oh  no,  father,"  replied  the  twins,  with  one  voice. 

"  Well,  I'm  determined  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
No  daughter  of  mine  shall  behave  in  that  way  in  this 
house.  Here's  everything  a  girl  can  want  to  make 
her  happy — it's  the  ingratitude  of  it  that  I  can't 
put  up  with,  and  so  Miss  Cicely  shall  find  when  she 
condescends  to  come  home,  as  she  shall  do  if  I  have 
to  go  to   fetch  her  myself." 

Neither  of  the  twins  saw  her  way  to  interpose  a 
remark.  They  stood  in  front  of  their  father  as  they 
stood  in  front  of  Miss  Bird  in  the  schoolroom  when 
they  "  did  repetition." 

"  Do  either  of  you  know  if  Cicely  wasn't  con- 
tented or  anything  of  that  sort.?"  inquired  the 
Squire. 

"  She  has  been  rather  off  her  oats  since  Muriel  was 
married,"  said  Joan. 

"  Eh  1  What's  that !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  bend- 
ing his  heavy  brows  on  her  with  a  terrific  frown. 
"  Do  you  think  this  is  a  time  to  play  the  fool — with 
me?  Off  her  oats!  How  dare  you  speak  like  that? 
We  shall  have  you  running  away  next." 

Joan's  face  began  to  pucker  up.  "  I  didn't  mean 
anything,  father,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"  I  heard  you  say  it  the  other  day." 

"  There,  there,  child,  don't  cry,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  What  I  may  say  and  what  you  may  say  are  two 
very  different  things.     Off  her  oats,  eh?    Well,  she'd 


^8^     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

better  get  on  her  oats  again  as  quick  as  possible. 
Now,  I  won't  have  you  children  talking  about  this, 
do  you  understand? — or  Miss  Bird  either.  It's  a 
most  disagreeable  thing  to  have  happened,  and  if 
it  gets  out  I  shall  be  very  much  annoyed.  I  don't 
want  the  servants  to  know,  and  I  trust  you  two  not 
to  go  about  wagging  your  tongues,  do  you  hear.?  " 

"  O  father,  we  shouldn't  think  of  saying  anything 
about  it  to  anybody,"  exclaimed  Nancy. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?  There's  nothing  to  make  a  mys- 
tery about,  you  know.  Cicely  has  gone  up  to  Lon- 
don to  visit  Walter  and  Muriel.  No  reason  why 
anybody  should  know  more  than  that.  There  isnH 
any  more  to  know,  except  what  concerns  me — and  I 
won't  have  it.  Now  don't  interrupt  me  any  more. 
Go  off  and  behave  yourselves  and  don't  get  in  the 
way.  You've  got  the  whole  house  to  yourselves  and 
I  don't  want  you  here.  Ring  the  bell,  Joan,  I  want 
Porter  to  send  a  telegram." 

The  twins  departed.  They  could  now  go  up  to 
their  mother.  "  Don't  want  the  servants  to  know !  " 
said  Nancy  as  they  went  upstairs.  "  Is  it  the  camel 
or  the  dromedary  that  sticks  its  head  in  the  sand.^^  " 

"  The  ostrich,"  said  Joan.  "  It  seems  to  me  there's 
a  great  deal  of  fuss  about  nothing.  Cicely  wanted 
to  see  her  dear  Muriel,  so  she  went  and  saw  her.  I 
call  it  a  touching  instance  of  friendship." 

"  And  fidelity,"  added  Nancy. 

Their  view  of  the  matter  was  not  contradicted  by 
anything  that  Mrs.  Clinton  did  or  said  when  they 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   283 

went  in  to  her.  She  was  already  dressed  and  moving 
about  the  room,  putting  things  to  rights.  It  was  a 
very  big  room,  so  big  that  even  with  the  bed  not  yet 
made  nor  the  washstand  set  in  order,  it  did  not  look 
like  a  room  that  had  just  been  slept  in.  It  was  over 
the  dining-room  and  had  three  windows,  before  one 
of  which  was  a  table  with  books  and  writing  materials 
on  it.  There  were  big,  old-fashioned,  cane-seated 
and  backed  easy-chairs,  with  hard  cushions  covered 
with  chintz,  other  tables,  a  chintz-covered  couch,  a 
bookcase  with  diamond-paned  glass  doors.  On  the 
broad  marble  mantelpiece  were  an  Empire  clock  and 
some  old  china,  and  over  it  a  long  gilt  mirror  with 
a  moulded  device  of  lions  drawing  chariots  and 
cupids  flying  above  them.  On  the  walls,  hung  with 
a  faded  paper  of  roses,  were  water-colour  drawings, 
crayon  portraits,  some  fine  line  engravings  of  well- 
known  pictures,  a  few  photographs  in  Oxford  frames. 
The  bedroom  furniture  proper  was  of  heavy  mahog- 
any, a  four-post  bed  hung  with  white  dimity,  a 
wardrobe  as  big  as  a  closet.  Nothing  was  modem 
except  the  articles  on  the  dressing-table,  nothing  was 
very  old. 

Never  later  than  eight  o'clock  the  Squire  would 
rise  and  go  into  his  dressing-room,  and  when  Mrs. 
Clinton  had  dressed  and  in  her  orderly  fashion  tidied 
her  room  she  would  sit  at  her  table  and  read  until  it 
was  time  to  go  down  to  breakfast.  Whenever  he 
got  up  earlier  she  got  up  earlier  too,  and  had  longer 
to  spend  by  the  window  open  to  the  summer  morning, 


284     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

or  in  the  winter  with  her  books  on  the  table  lit  by 
candles.  They  were  for  the  most  part  devotional 
books.  But  once  the  Squire  had  come  in  to  her  very 
early  one  October  morning  when  he  was  going  cub- 
hunting  and  found  her  reading  The  Divine  Comedy 
with  a  translation  and  an  Italian  dictionary  and 
grammar.  He  had  talked  of  it  downstairs  as  a  good 
joke:  "Mother  reading  Dante — what.f^  "  and  she 
had  put  away  those  books. 

She  was  a  little  paler  than  usual  this  morning,  but 
the  twins  noticed  no  difference  in  her  manner.  She 
kissed  them  and  said,  "  You  have  heard  that  Cicely 
went  to  London  yesterday  to  stay  with  Muriel. 
Father  is  anxious  about  her,  and  I  am  rather  anxious 
too,  but  there  is  nothing  really  to  worry  about.  We 
must  all  behave  as  usual,  and  two  of  us  at  least 
mustn't  give  any  cause  of  complaint  to-day." 

She  said  this  with  a  smile.  It  was  nothing  but  a 
repetition  of  Miss  Bird's  exhortation  to  hold  their 
tongues  and  be  good  girls,  but  they  embraced  her, 
and  made  fervent  promises  of  good  behaviour,  which 
they  fully  intended  to  keep.  Then  they  read  some- 
thing for  a  few  minutes  with  their  mother  and  left 
her  to  her  own  reading  and  her  own  thoughts. 

The  morning  post  brought  no  letter  from  Cicely, 
and  again  the  Squire  remained  standing  while  he 
read  prayers.  Immediately  after  breakfast  he  went 
down  to  the  Rectory,  ostensibly  to  warn  Tom  and 
Grace  not  to  talk,  actually  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  talking  himself  to  a  fresh  relay  of  listeners.     He 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   285 

expressed  his  surprise  in  the  same  terms  as  he  had 
already  used,  and  said  repeatedly  that  he  wouldn't 
have  it.  Then,  as  it  was  plain  that,  whether  he 
would  or  no,  he  already  had  had  it,  he  rather  weakly 
asked  the  Rector  what  he  would  do  if  he  were  in  his 
place. 

"Well,  Edward,"  said  the  Rector  thoughtfully, 
"  of  course  it  is  very  tiresome  and  all  that,  and  Cicely 
ought  not  to  have  gone  off  in  that  way  without  any 
warning.  Still,  we  don't  know  what  is  going  on  in 
girls'  minds,  do  we?  Cicely  is  a  sensible  girl  enough, 
and  I  think  when  she  comes  back  if  you  were  to 
leave  it  to  Nina  to  find  out  what  there  was  to  make 
her  go  off  suddenly  like  that — well,  how  would  that 
be,  eh.?  " 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  the  Squire  for  the 
twentieth  time.  "  Nina  knows  no  more  about  it  all 
than  I  do.  I  can't  help  blaming  her  for  that,  be- 
cause  " 

"  O  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Beach,  "  whoever  is  to 
blame,  it  is  not  Nina.  Cicely  is  devoted  to  her,  and 
so  are  the  dear  twins,  for  all  their  general  harum- 
scarumness." 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  the  Squire,  who 
had  been  going  to  say  something  quite  different, 
"  that  Nina  is  very  much  upset  about  this.  She  takes 
everything  calmly  enough,  as  you  know,  but  she's  a 
good  mother  to  her  children — I  will  say  that  for 
her — and  it's  enough  to  upset  any  woman  when  her 
daughter  behaves  to  her  in  this  monstrous  fashion." 


286     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  How  do  you  think  it  would  be,"  asked  the  Rector, 
"  if  Nina  were  to  go  up  to  London  and  have  a  talk 
with  Cicely  there  ?  " 

The  Squire  hummed  and  ha'd.  "  I  don't  see  the 
sense  of  making  more  fuss  about  it  than  has  been 
made  already,"  he  said.  "  I  told  Nina  this  morning, 
'  If  you  go  posting  off  to  London,'  I  said,  '  every- 
body will  think  that  something  dreadful  has  hap- 
pened.    Much  better  stop  where  you  are.'  " 

"  If  she  wants  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Beach,  "  I  think  it 
would  be  the  very  best  thing.  She  would  bring 
Cicely  to  a  right  frame  of  mind — nobody  could  do  it 
better;  and  you  would  be  at  home,  Edward,  to  see 
that  nothing  was  done  here  to  complicate  matters. 
I  think  that  would  be  very  important,  and  nobody 
could  do  that  but  you." 

"  So  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  if  I  let  Nina 
go  up  to  her.f^  "  said  the  Squire. 

The  Rector  and  Mrs.  Beach  both  thought  it  would 
be  a  very  good  idea. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  thought  perhaps  it 
would,  but  I  hadn't  quite  made  up  my  mind  about 
it.  I  thought  we'd  better  wait,  at  any  rate,  till  we 
got  an  answer  to  my  wire  to  Walter.  And  that 
reminds  me — I'd  better  be  getting  back.  Well, 
good-bye,  Tom,  good-bye,  my  dear  Grace.  Of  course 
I  needn't  ask  either  of  you  not  to  let  this  go  any 
further." 

The  non-arrival  of  an  answer  to  his  message  had 
a  cumulative  effect  upon  the  Squire's  temper  during 


THE  WHOLE  HOUSE  UPSET   287 

the  morning.  At  half-past  eleven  o'clock  he  gained 
some  temporary  relief  to  his  discomfort  by  despatch- 
ing another  one,  and  did  not  entirely  recover  his 
balance  until  Dick's  telegram  arrived  about  luncheon 
time.  Then  he  calmed  down  suddenly,  joked  with 
the  twins  over  the  table  and  told  Miss  Bird  that  she 
was  getting  younger  every  day.  He  also  gave  Mrs. 
Clinton  her  marching  orders.  "  I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter go  up,  Nina,"  he  said,  "  and  see  what  the  young 
monkey  has  been  after.  I'm  excessively  annoyed 
with  her,  and  you  can  tell  her  so ;  but  if  she  really  is 
with  Walter  and  Muriel  I  don't  suppose  any  harm 
has  come  to  her.  I  must  say  it's  a  relief.  Still, 
I'm  very  angry  about  it,  and  so  she'll  find  out  when 
she  comes  home." 

So  another  telegram  was  despatched,  and  Mrs. 
Clinton  went  up  to  London  by  the  afternoon  train 
accompanied  by  the  discreet  and  faithful  Miles. 


CHAPTER    XX 


MRS.    CLINTON 


That  night  Cicely  and  her  mother  sat  late  together 
in  Mrs.  Clinton's  bedroom.  Mrs.  Clinton  was  in  a 
low  easy-chair  and  Cicely  on  a  stool  at  her  feet. 
Outside  was  the  continuous  and  restless  echo  of 
London  pushing  up  to  the  very  feet  of  its  encircling 
hills,  but  they  were  as  far  removed  from  it  in  spirit 
as  if  they  had  been  at  home  in  still  and  spacious 
Kencote. 

Mrs.  Clinton  had  arrived  at  Muriel's  house  in  time 
for  dinner.  Walter  had  come  home  from  Lord's 
soon  enough  to  meet  her  at  the  station  and  bring 
her  out  in  his  motor-car.  He  had  made  Miles  sit  in 
front  with  his  servant  and  he  had  told  his  mother 
what  Dick  would  have  told  her  if  she  had  waited  to 
come  to  Cicely  until  after  he  had  returned  to  Ken- 
cote. She  had  listened  to  him  in  silence  as  he  un- 
folded his  story,  making  no  comment  even  when  he 
told  her  of  Dick's  opening  her  daughter's  letter  to 
her ;  but  when  he  told  her  that  Cicely  had  asked  that 
she  should  be  sent  for  she  had  clasped  her  hands  and 
said,  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad." 

Muriel  had  met  her  at  the  door,  but  Cicely  had 
stayed  in  the  drawing-room,  pale  and  downcast. 
She  had  gone  in  to  her  alone  and  kissed  her  and  said, 


MRS.    CLINTON  289 

"  I  am  glad  you  wanted  your  mother,  my  darling. 
You  shall  tell  me  everything  to-night  when  we  go 
upstairs,  and  we  won't  think  about  it  any  more  until 
then." 

So  the  evening  had  passed  almost  pleasantly.  At 
times  even  Cicely  must  have  forgotten  what  lay 
behind  and  before  her,  for  she  had  laughed  and 
talked  with  a  sort  of  feverish  gaiety ;  only  after  such 
outbursts  she  had  grown  suddenly  silent  and  trem- 
bled on  the  verge  of  tears.  Walter  had  watched 
her  and  sent  her  upstairs  before  ten  o'clock,  and  her 
mother  had  gone  up  with  her  and  helped  her  to 
undress  as  if  she  had  been  a  child  again.  Then  she 
had  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  gone  to  Mrs. 
Clinton's  room,  and  resting  her  head  on  her  mother's 
knee  had  told  her  everything  with  frequent  tears 
and  many  exclamations  at  her  own  madness  and 
folly. 

It  was  more  difficult  to  tell  even  than  she  had 
thought.  When  all  was  said  about  her  discontent 
and  the  suddenness  with  which  she  had  been  urged 
towards  a  way  of  escape  from  surroundings  that  now 
seemed  inexpressibly  dear  to  her,  there  remained 
that  inexcusable  fault  of  leaving  her  mother  without 
a  word,  for  a  man  whom  she  couldn't  even  plead 
that  she  loved.  With  her  mother's  hand  caressing 
her  hair  it  seemed  to  her  incredible  that  she  could 
have  done  such  a  thing.  She  begged  her  forgiveness 
again  and  again,  but  each  time  that  she  received 
loving  words  in  answer  she  felt  that  it  must  be  im- 


290     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

possible  that  they  could  ever  be  to  one  another  again 
what  they  had  been. 

At  last  Mrs.  Clinton  said,  "  You  must  not  think 
too  much  of  that,  my  darling.  You  were  carried 
away;  you  hardly  knew  what  you  were  doing.  It 
is  all  wiped  out  in  my  mind  by  your  wanting  me 
directly  you  came  to  yourself.  We  won't  talk  of  it 
any  more.  But  what  we  ought  to  talk  of,  Cicely 
dear,  and  try  to  see  our  way  through,  is  the  state  of 
mind  you  had  got  into,  which  made  what  happened 
to  you  possible,  and  gave  this  man  his  opportunity. 
I  think  that  six  months  ago,  although  he  might  have 
tried  to  behave  in  the  same  way,  you  would  only 
have  been  frightened;  you  would  have  come  straight 
to  me  and  told  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  should,  mother,"  she  cried. 

"  Then  what  was  it  that  has  come  between  us  ? 
You  have  told  me  that  you  were  discontented  at 
home,  but  couldn't  you  have  told  me  that  before?" 

Cicely  was  silent.  Why  hadn't  she  told  her  mother, 
to  whom  she  had  been  used  to  tell  everything,  of  her 
discontent.?  A  sudden  blush  ran  down  from  her 
cheeks  to  her  neck.  It  was  because  she  had  judged 
her  mother,  as  well  as  her  father  and  brothers,  her 
mother  who  had  accepted  the  life  that  she  had  kicked 
against  and  had  bent  a  meek  head  to  the  whims  of 
her  master.     She  couldn't  tell  her  that. 

"  The  thing  that  decided  me,"  she  began  hesitat- 
ingly, "  when  I  was  sitting  in  my  room  that  night  not 
knowing  what  I  was  going  to  do,  I  heard  father  and 


MRS.    CLINTON  291 

Dick  talking  as  they  came  up,  and  they  had  decided 
to  turn  Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura  out  of  the  house 
they  had  lived  in  nearly  all  their  lives  and  let  it  to 
those  MacLeod  people.  It  seemed  to  me  so — so 
selfish  and — and  horrible." 

"  You  cannot  have  heard  properly,"  said  Mrs. 
Clinton.     "  It  was  what  they  had  decided  not  to  do. 

Father  woke  me  up  to  tell  me  so.     But  even  if 

I  don't  understand,  Cicely  dear." 

"  O  mother,  can't  you  see.?  "  cried  Cicely.  "  If  I 
was  wrong  about  that,  and  I'm  very  glad  I  was,  it  is 
just  what  they  might  have  done.  They  had  talked 
it  all  over  again  and  again,  and  they  couldn't  make 
up  their  minds — and  before  us  !  " 

"Before  us.?" 

"  Yes.  We  are  nobodies.  If  father  were  to  die 
Dick  would  turn  us  out  of  the  house  as  a  matter  of 
course.  He  would  have  everything;  we  should  have 
nothing." 

Mrs.  Clinton  was  clearly  bewildered.  "  Dick  would 
not  turn  us  out  of  the  house  unless  he  were  married," 
she  said,  "  and  we  should  not  have  nothing.  We 
should  be  very  well  off.  But  surely,  Cicely,  it  is 
impossible  that  you  can  have  been  thinking  of  money 
matters  in  that  way!  You  cannot  be  giving  me  a 
right  impression  of  what  has  been  in  your  mind." 

"  No,  it  isn't  that,"  said  Cicely.  "  I  don't  know 
anything  about  money  matters,  and  I  haven't 
thought  about  them — not  in  that  way.  But  father 
and  the  boys  do  talk  about  money ;  a  lot  seems  to 


292     THE    SQUIRE^S   DAUGHTER 

depend  upon  it,  and  I  can't  help  seeing  that  they 
spend  a  great  deal  of  money  on  whatever  they  want 
to  do,  and  we  have  to  take  what's  left." 

"  Still  I  don't  understand,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton. "  Certainly  it  costs  a  great  deal  to  keep  up  a 
house  like  Kencote;  but  it  is  our  home;  we  are  all 
happy  there  together." 

"  Are  you  quite  happy  there,  mother  .^^ "  asked 
Cicely. 

Mrs.  Clinton  put  by  the  question.  "  You  know, 
of  course,"  she  went  on,  "  that  we  are  well  off,  a 
good  deal  better  off  than  most  families  who  have  big 
properties  to  keep  up.  For  people  in  our  position 
we  live  simply,  and  if — if  I  were  to  outlive  father, 
and  you  and  the  children  were  still  unmarried,  we 
should  live  together — not  in  such  a  big  house  as 
Kencote — but  with  everything  we  could  desire,  or 
that  would  be  good  for  us." 

"  And  if  we  lived  like  that,"  said  Cicely,  "  wouldn't 
you  think  some  things  good  for  us  that  we  don't 
have,  mother  .f^  If  we  had  horses,  wouldn't  you  let 
me  have  one  to  ride?  Wouldn't  you  take  me  to 
London  sometimes,  not  to  go  to  smart  parties,  but 
to  see  something  of  interesting  people  as  Angela  and 
Beatrice  do  at  Aunt  Emmeline's,  and  see  plays  and 
pictures  and  hear  music?  Wouldn't  you  take  us 
abroad  sometimes?  Should  we  have  to  live  the  whole 
year  round  in  the  country,  doing  nothing  and  know- 
ing nothing  ?  " 

Mrs.  Clinton's  hand  stopped  its  gentle,  caressing 


MRS.    CLINTON  293 

movement,  and  then  went  on  again.  During  the 
moment  of  pause  she  faced  a  crisis  as  vital  as  that 
which  Cicely  had  gone  through.  She  had  had  just 
those  desires  in  her  youth  and  she  had  stifled  them. 
Could  they  be  stifled — would  it  be  right  to  stifle 
them — in  the  daughter  who  had,  perhaps,  inherited 
them  from  her.? 

"  You  asked  me  just  now,"  she  said,  "  whether  I 
was  happy.  Yes,  I  am  happy.  I  have  my  dear  ones 
around  me,  I  have  my  religion,  I  have  my  place  in 
the  world  to  fill.  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  if  I 
were  not  happy.  But  if  you  ask  me  whether  the 
life  I  lead  is  exactly  what  it  would  be  if  it  rested 
only  with  me  to  order  it — I  think  you  know  that  it 
isn't.?" 

"  But  why  shouldn't  it  be,  mother?  Other  women 
do  the  things  they  like,  and  father  and  the  boys  do 
exactly  what  they  like.  If  you  have  wanted  the 
same  things  that  I  want  now,  I  say  you  ought  to 
have  had  them." 

"  If  I  had  had  them.  Cicely,  I  should  not  have 
found  out  one  very  great  thing — that  happiness  does 
not  come  from  these  things;  it  does  not  come  from 
doing  what  you  like,  even  if  what  you  like  is  good  in 
itself.  I  might  almost  say  that  it  comes  from  not 
doing  what  you  like.  That  is  the  lesson  that  I  have 
learned  of  life,  and  I  am  thankful  that  it  has  been 
taught  me." 

Cicely  was  silent  for  a  time.  She  seemed  to  see 
her  mother,  dear  as  she  had  been  to  her,  in  a  new 


294     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

light,  with  a  halo  of  uncomplaining  self-sacrifice 
round  her.  Her  face  burned  as  she  remembered  how 
that  morning  in  church,  and  since,  she  had  thought 
of  her  as  one  who  had  bartered  her  independence 
for  a  life  of  dull  luxury  and  stagnation.  It  came 
upon  her  with  a  flash  of  insight  that  her  mother 
was  a  woman  of  strong  intelligence,  who  had,  con- 
sciously, laid  her  intellectual  gifts  on  the  altar  of 
duty,  and  found  her  reward  in  doing  so.  The 
thought  found  ineff^ective  utterance. 

"  Of  course  it  is  from  you  that  Walter  gets  his 
brains,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Clinton  did  not  reply  to  this.  "  You  are 
very  young  to  learn  the  lesson,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
not  sure — I  don't  think  it  is  a  lesson  that  every  one 
need  learn — that  every  woman  need  learn.  I  should 
like  you  to  make  use  of  your  brains — if  that  is  really 
what  you  have  been  unhappy  about.  Cicely.  But  is 
it  so,  my  dear  ^  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Cicely.  "  I  suppose  not. 
If  I  had  wanted  to  learn  things,  there  are  plenty  of 
books  at  Kencote  and  I  had  plenty  of  time.  It  was 
in  London — it  was  just  one  of  the  things.  First  I 
was  jealous — I  suppose  it  was  that — because  Dick 
and  Humphrey  had  always  had  such  a  good  time 
and  seemed  to  belong  to  everything,  and  I  was  so 
out  of  it  all.  I  still  think  that  very  unfair.  Then 
when  I  went  to  Aunt  Emmeline's  and  saw  what  a 
good  time  Angela  and  Beatrice  had  in  a  different 
sort  of  way — I  wanted  that  too.     And  I  think  that 


MRS.    CLINTON  ^95 

is  unfair.  When  I  talked  to  them — I  like  them  very 
much,  but  I  suppose  they  wanted  to  show  how  much 
better  off  they  were  than  I  am — the  only  thing  they 
seemed  to  think  I  was  lucky  in  was  my  allowance, 
and  even  then  they  said  they  didn't  see  how  I  could 
spend  it,  as  I  never  went  anywhere.  I  felt  so  ig- 
norant  beside  them.  Once  Angela  said  something 
to  me  in  French — the  maid  was  in  the  room — and  I 
didn't  understand  her.  I  was  ashamed.  Mother,  I 
think  I  ought  to  have  had  the  chances  that  Angela 
and  Beatrice  have  had." 

Mrs.  Clinton  listened  with  a  grave  face.  How 
could  she  not  have  believed  most  of  it  to  be  true.?* 
She  knew  that,  in  marrying  her,  her  husband  had 
been  considered  to  be  marrying  rather  beneath  him. 
And  yet,  her  brother's  daughters  were — there  was 
no  doubt  of  it — better  fitted  to  take  a  place,  even  a 
high  place,  in  the  world  than  her  own  daughter. 
Her  husband  could  never  have  seen  it,  but  she  knew 
that  it  was  true.  Her  younger  niece  was  already 
engaged  to  be  married  to  a  man  of  some  mark  in  the 
world,  and  she  would  be  an  intellectual  companion 
to  him.  If  Cicely  had  caught  the  fancy  of  such  a 
man  she  would  have  had  everything  to  learn.  Even 
in  this  deplorable  danger  through  which  she  had  just 
passed,  it  was  her  ignorance  that  had  laid  her  open  to 
it.  Perhaps  her  very  ignorance  had  attracted  the 
man  to  her,  but  he  certainly  would  not  have  been 
able  so  to  bend  her  to  his  will  if  she  had  lived  more 
in  the  world. 


^96     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  There  is  one  thing,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton, 
"  that  we  have  not  spoken  of.  I  don't  want  to  com- 
plicate the  troubles  you  are  passing  through,  but  it 
has  a  bearing  on  what  you  have  been  saying." 

"  You  mean  about  Jim,"  said  Cicely  courageously. 

"  Yes.  Father  and  I  have  both  been  very  glad 
of  what  we  have  always  looked  upon  as  an  engage- 
ment, although  it  could  not  be  a  recognised  one 
when — when  it  was  first  mooted.  You  must  remem- 
ber, dear,  that  we  are  country  people.  It  seems  to 
us  natural  that  our  daughters  should  marry  country 
gentlemen — should  marry  into  the  circle  of  our 
friends  and  neighbours.  And  the  prospect  of  your 
living  near  us  has  always  given  us  great  pleasure. 
You  seemed  to  me  quite  happy  at  home,  and  I  thought 
you  would  have  the  best  chance  of  happiness  in  your 
married  life  in  another  home  not  unlike  ours.  I 
thought  you  were  well  fitted  to  fill  that  place.  I  did 
not  think  of  you — I  don't  think  it  ever  crossed  my 
mind  to  think  of  you — as  wanting  a  different  life, 
the  sort  of  life  that  your  cousins  lead,  for  instance." 

"  Jim  was  very  good  to  me,  this  morning,"  Cicely 
said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  love  him  for  it.  Of  course 
I  do  love  him,  in  a  way,  just  as  I  love  Dick  or  Wal- 
ter. I  was  very  much  ashamed  at  having  left  him 
like  that,  for  somebody  who — who  isn't  as  good  as  he 
is.  Jim  is  good,  in  a  way  a  man  ought  to  be.  But, 
mother — I  can't  marry  Jim  now,  after  this." 

"  It  is  too  soon  to  talk  of  it,  or  perhaps  even  to 
think  of  it.     And  you  have  no  right  to  marry  any- 


MRS.   CLINTON  ^97 

body  unless  you  love  him  as  a  woman  should  love 
her  husband,  not  as  you  love  your  brothers.  We 
need  not  talk  of  marriage  now  at  all.  But,  my 
dearest,  I  want  you  to  be  happy  when  you  come  home 
again.  If  you  come  back  to  think  that  you  are  badly 
used,  that " 

"  Oh,  but,  mother,"  Cicely  interrupted  her,  "  that 
is  all  over.  I  have  only  been  trying  to  tell  you  what 
I  did  feel.  I  never  thought  of  the  other  side  at  all. 
Last  night  I  lay  awake  and  simply  longed  for  home. 
I  have  been  very  ungrateful.  I  love  Kencote,  and 
the  country  and  everything  I  do  there,  really.  I 
never  knew  before  how  much  I  loved  it.  It  was  a 
sort  of  madness  that  came  over  me." 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  like  that.  You  have  a  very 
beautiful  home,  and  you  are  surrounded  by  those 
who  love  you.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  make  your- 
self happy  at  home,  even  if  you  have  not  got  every- 
thing that  you  might  like  to  have.     Can  you  do  so .?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  can.  I  was  happy  enough 
before." 

"  Before  you  went  to  London." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  it  was  that.  I  must  be  very 
foolish  to  let  a  visit  to  London  upset  me.  I  don't 
want  to  see  London  again  now  for  a  long  time.  O 
mother,  I  have  been  very  wicked.  You  won't  be 
different  to  me,  will  you  ?  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap.  She  was 
overwrought  and  desperately  tired.  Mrs.  Clinton 
felt  that  except  for  having  done  something  towards 


298     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

healing  the  wound  made  by  her  late  experience  she 
had  accomplished  little.  Cicely's  eyes  had  been 
partially  opened,  and  it  was  not  in  her  mother's 
power  to  close  them  again.  It  was  only  natural  that 
she  should  now  turn  for  a  time  eagerly  towards  the 
quiet  life  she  had  been  so  eager  to  run  away  from. 
But  when  her  thoughts  had  settled  down  again,  when 
weeks  and  months  had  divided  her  from  her  painful 
awakening,  and  its  memory  had  worn  thin,  would 
she  then  be  content,  or  would  these  desires,  which 
no  one  could  say  were  unreasonable,  gain  strength 
again  to  unsettle  and  dispirit  her.?  It  was  only  too 
likely.  And  if  they  did,  what  chance  was  there  of 
satisfying  them.? 

Mrs.  Clinton  thought  over  these  things  when  she 
had  tucked  Cicely  up  in  her  bed  and  sat  by  her  side 
until  she  was  asleep.  Cicely  had  begged  her  to  do 
this,  Cicely,  her  mother's  child  again,  who,  the  night 
before  had  lain  awake  hour  after  hour,  alone,  trem- 
bling at  the  unknown  and  longing  for  the  dear  fa- 
miliar. There  was  deep  thankfulness  in  the  mother's 
heart  as  she  watched  over  her  child  restored  to  her 
love  and  protection,  but  there  was  sadness  too,  and 
some  fear  of  the  future,  which  was  not  entirely  in 
her  hands. 

Cicely  was  soon  asleep.  Mrs.  Clinton  gently  dis- 
engaged the  hand  she  had  been  holding,  stood  for  a 
time  looking  down  upon  her,  fondly  but  rather  sadly, 
and  crept  out  of  the  room.  It  was  nearly  one 
o'clock,  so  long  had  their  confidences  lasted,  but  as 


MRS.    CLINTON  299 

she  came  downstairs,  for  Cicely's  room  was  on  the 
second  floor,  Walter  came  out  of  his  bedroom 
dressed  to  go  out. 

"Hullo,  mother!"  he  said.  "Not  in  bed  yet! 
I've  been  called  up.  Child  with  croup.  I  don't 
suppose  I  shall  be  long,  and  Muriel  is  going  down 
to  make  me  some  soup.  If  you'd  like  a  yarn  with 
her " 

Muriel  came  out  in  her  dressing-gown.  "  I  said  I 
would  always  make  him  soup  when  he  was  called  out 
at  night,"  she  said,  "  and  this  is  the  first  time.  I'm 
a  good  doctor's  wife,  don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Clin- 
ton.''    Is  Cicely  asleep  .f*" 

"  Yes,  I  have  just  left  her.  I  will  come  down  with 
you,  dear,  and  help  you  make  Walter's  soup." 

So  they  went  down  together  and  when  they  had 
done  their  work,  bending  together  over  a  gas  stove 
in  the  kitchen,  which  was  the  home  of  more  black 
beetles  than  was  altogether  desirable,  although  it 
was  otherwise  clean  and  bright  and  well-furnished, 
they  sat  by  the  dining-room  table  awaiting  Walter's 
return. 

There  was  sympathy  between  Mrs.  Clinton  and  her 
daughter-in-law,  who  recognised  her  fine  qualities 
and  loved  her  for  them,  privately  thinking  that  she 
was  a  woman  ill-used  by  fate  and  her  husband.  Mrs. 
Graham  thought  so  too,  but  she  and  Mrs.  Clinton  had 
little  in  common,  and  in  spite  of  mutuaj  estec^^ 
could  hardly  be  called  friends.  But  the  tie  whicl 
had  bound  Muriel  to  Kencote  all  her  life  had  de- 


300     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

pended  almost  as  much  upon  Mrs.  Clinton  as  upon 
Cicely,  and  until  the  last  few  months  more  than  it 
had  upon  Walter.  They  could  talk  together  knowing 
that  each  would  understand  the  other,  and  Muriel's 
downrightness  did  not  offend  Mrs.  Clinton. 

She  plunged  now  into  the  middle  of  things.  "  You 
know  it  is  Jim  I  am  thinking  of,  Mrs.  Clinton,"  she 
said,  "  now  that  this  extraordinary  business  is  over. 
I  want  to  know  where  Jim  comes  in." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton,  with  a 
smile,  "  that  poor  Jim  has  come  in  very  little." 

"  Did  you  know,"  asked  Muriel,  "  that  Jim  was 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  Cicely,  or  did  you  think, 
like  everybody  else,  that  he  was  slack  about  it.''  " 

Mrs.  Clinton  thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  have 
never  thought  of  him  as  head  over  ears  in  love  with 
Cicely,"  she  said. 

"  And  I  didn't  either,  till  Walter  told  me.  But  he 
is.  He  behaved  like  a  brick  to-day.  Dick  told  Wal- 
ter. And  Cicely  told  me  too.  It  was  Jim  who  got 
her  away  from  that  man — ^the  horrible  creature ! 
How  can  a  man  be  such  a  brute,  Mrs.  Clinton?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  him,  Muriel,"  said 
Mrs.  Clinton  quietly.  "  He  has  come  into  our  life 
and  he  has  gone  out  again.  I  hope  we  shall  never 
see  him  again." 

"  If  I  ever  see  him,"  said  Muriel,  "  nothing  shall 
prevent  my  telling  him  what  I  think  of  him.  How 
Cicely  could!  Poor  darling,  she  doesn't  know  how 
she  could  herself,  now.      She  told  me  that  she  saw 


MRS.    CLINTON  301 

him  as  he  was  beside  Jim  and  Dick.  He  isn't  a 
gentleman,  for  all  the  great  things  he  has  done,  and 
somehow  that  little  fact  seemed  to  have  escaped  her 
until  then.  Don't  you  think  it  is  rather  odd  that 
it  matters  so  tremendously  to  women  like  us  whether 
the  men  we  live  with  are  gentlemen  or  not,  and  yet 
we  are  so  liable  at  first  to  make  mistakes  about 
them?" 

Mrs.  Clinton  was  not  quite  equal  to  the  discussion 
of  a  general  question.  "  It  would  matter  to  any  one 
brought  up  as  Cicely  has  been,"  she  said,  "  or  you. 
Can  you  tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean  when  you 
say  that  Jim  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  Cicely? 
I  don't  think  he  has  shown  it  to  her." 

"  Nobody  quite  knows  Jim,  except  Walter,"  re- 
plied Muriel.  "  I  don't,  and  mother  doesn't ;  and 
dear  father  never  did.  I  suppose  there  is  not  much 
doubt  about  his  being  rather  slow.  Slow  and  sure 
is  just  the  phrase  to  fit  him.  He  is  sure  of  himself 
when  he  makes  up  his  mind  about  a  thing,  and  I 
suppose  he  was  sure  of  Cicely.  He  was  just  content 
to  wait.  You  know,  I'm  afraid  Walter  thinks  that 
Cicely  has  behaved  very  badly  to  him." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Clinton. 

Muriel  hesitated.  "  I  think  what  Walter  does," 
she  said,  rather  doggedly.  "  But  I  don't  feel  it  so 
much.     I  love  Cicely,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  her." 

"  Why  are  you  sorry  for  her?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  one  could  hardly  help  being  after  what 
she  has  gone  through." 


S02     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

"Only  that,  Muriel?" 

Muriel  hesitated  again.  "  I  don't  think  she  has 
had  quite  a  fair  chance,"  she  said. 

"  She  has  had  the  same  chances  that  you  have 
had." 

"  Not  quite,  I  think,"  said  Muriel.  She  spoke 
with  her  head  down  and  a  face  rather  flushed,  as  if 
she  was  determined  to  go  through  with  something 
unpleasant.  "  I'm  not  as  clever  as  she  is,  but  if  I 
had  been — if  I  had  wanted  the  sort  of  things  that 
she  wants — I  should  have  had  them." 

"  I  think  she  could  have  had  them,  if  she  had 
really  wanted  them,"  said  Mrs.  Clinton  quietly. 
"  I  think  I  should  have  seen  that  she  did  have 
them." 

"  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Clinton,  don't  think  I'm  taking 
it  on  myself  to  blame  you.  You  know  I  wouldn't 
do  that.  But  I  must  say  what  I  think.  Life  is 
desperately  dull  for  a  girl  at  houses  like  Kencote 
or  Mountfield." 

"Kencote  and  Mountfield.?" 

"  Well,  don't  be  angry  with  me  if  I  say  it  is  much 
more  dull  at  Kencote  than  at  Mountfield.  Cicely 
isn't  even  allowed  to  hunt.  I  was,  and  yet  I  was 
glad  enough  to  get  away  from  it,  although  I  love 
country  life,  and  so  does  Walter.  We  never  see 
anybody,  we  never  go  anywhere.  I  am  heaps  and 
heaps  happier  in  this  little  house  of  my  own  than  I 
was  at  Mountfield." 

"  Muriel,"   said   Mrs.    Clinton,   "  what  is   it   that 


MRS.    CLINTON  303 

Cicely  wants  ?  You  and  she  talk  of  the  same  things. 
First  it  is  one  thing  and  then  it  is  another.  First  it 
is  that  she  has  had  no  chances  of  learning.  What 
has  she  ever  shown  that  she  wants  to  learn?  Then 
it  is  that  she  does  not  go  away,  and  does  not  see 
new  faces.  Is  that  a  thing  of  such  importance  that 
the  want  of  it  should  lead  to  what  has  happened.? 
Then  it  is  that  she  is  not  allowed  to  hunt !  I  will  not 
add  to  Cicely's  trouble  now  by  rebuking  these  de- 
sires. Only  the  first  of  them  could  have  any  weight 
with  me,  and  I  do  not  think  that  has  ever  been  a 
strong  desire,  or  is  now,  for  any  reason  that  is  worth 
taking  into  consideration.  But  the  plain  truth  of  the 
whole  trouble  is  that  Cicely  had  her  mind  upset  by 
her  visit  to  London  two  months  ago.  You  should 
not  encourage  her  in  her  discontent.  Her  only 
chance  of  happiness  is  to  see  where  her  duty  lies 
and  to  gauge  the  amusements  that  she  cannot  have  at 
their  true  value." 

"  I  haven't  encouraged  her,"  said  Muriel,  "  I  said 
much  the  same  as  you  have  when  she  first  talked  to 
me.  I  told  her  she  had  had  her  head  turned.  But, 
all  the  same,  I  think  there  is  something  in  what  she 
says,  and  at  any  rate,  she  has  felt  it  so  strongly  as 
nearly  to  spoil  her  life  in  trying  to  get  away  from 
it  all.  She'll  be  pleased  enough  to  get  home  now, 
if — if — well,  excuse  my  saying  it,  but — if  Mr.  Clinton 
will  let  her  alone — and  yet,  it  will  all  come  back  on 
her  when  she  has  got  used  to  being  at  home.  Do  you 
know  what  I  think,  Mrs.  Chnton?     I  think  the  only 


304     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

thing  that  will  give  her  back  to  herself  now  is  for  her 
to  marry  Jim  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  But  Kencote  and  Mountfield  both  are  desperately 
dull  for  a  girl  I " 

Muriel  laughed.  "  She  wouldn't  find  Mountfield 
so  if  she  really  loved  Jim.  I  don't  know  whether 
she  does  or  not.     She  won't  hear  of  him  now." 

Mrs.  Clinton  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then  she  said 
slowly,  "  It  was  Jim  who  rescued  her  to-day  from  a 
great  danger.  I  think  it  is  only  Jim  who  can  rescue 
her  from  herself." 


CHAPTER    XXI 


cicely's  return 


"  When  Cicely  comes,  send  her  in  to  me  at  once," 
said  the  Squire,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  going 
to  take  a  matter  in  hand. 

Cicely,  convoyed  by  the  reliable  Miles,  was  return- 
ing to  Kencote  after  having  stayed  with  Muriel  for 
a  fortnight.  Mrs.  Clinton  had  left  her  at  Melbury 
Park  after  a  three  days'  visit. 

"And  I  won't  have  the  children  meeting  her,  or 
anything  of  that  sort,"  added  the  Squire.  "  She  is 
not  coming  home  in  triumph.  You  can  go  to  the 
door,  Nina,  and  send  her  straight  in  to  me.  We'll 
get  this  business  put  right  once  for  all." 

Mrs.  CHnton  said  nothing,  but  went  out  of  the 
room.  She  could  have  small  hopes  that  her  husband 
would  succeed  when  she  had  failed  in  putting  the 
business  right.  She  told  herself  now  that  she  had 
failed.  During  her  many  talks  with  Cicely,  although 
she  had  been  able,  with  her  love  and  wisdom,  to 
soothe  the  raw  shame  that  had  come  upon  her 
daughter  when  she  had  looked  back  in  cold  blood 
to  her  flight  with  Mackenzie,  she  had  not  been  able 
to  do  away  with  the  feeling  of  resentment  with  which 
Cicely  had  come  to  view  her  home  life.  Her 
weapons    had    turned    back    upon   herself.     Neither 

305 


606     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

of  them  had  been  able  to  say  to  each  other  exactly 
what  was  in  their  mind,  and  because  Cicely  had  to 
stay  herself  with  some  reason  for  her  action,  which 
with  her  father,  at  any  rate,  must  be  defended 
somehow,  she  had  fallen  back  upon  the  causes  of  her 
discontent  and  held  to  them  even  against  her  mother. 
And  there  was  enough  truth  in  them  to  make  it  dif- 
ficult for  Mrs.  Clinton  to  combat  her  attitude,  with- 
out saying,  what  she  could  not  say,  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  every  wife  and  every  daughter  to  do  as 
she  had  done,  and  rigidly  sink  her  own  personality 
where  it  might  clash  with  the  smallest  wish  or  action 
of  her  husband.  She  claimed  to  have  gained  her 
own  happiness  in  doing  so,  but  the  doctrine  of  happi- 
ness through  such  self-sacrifice  was  too  hard  a  one 
for  a  young  girl  to  receive.  She  had  gained  Cicely's 
admiration  and  a  more  understanding  love  from  the 
self-revelation  which  in  some  sort  she  had  made,  but 
she  had  not  availed  to  make  her  follow  her  example, 
and  could  not  have  done  so  without  holding  it  up 
as  the  one  right  course.  Cicely  must  fight  her  own 
battle  with  her  father,  and  whichever  of  them  proved 
the  victor  no  good  could  be  expected  to  come  of  it. 
She  was  firm  in  her  conviction  now  that  in  Jim  Gra- 
ham's hands  lay  the  only  immediate  chance  of  happi- 
ness for  her  daughter.  But  Jim  had  held  quite  aloof. 
No  word  had  been  heard  from  him,  and  no  one  had 
seen  him  since  he  had  parted  with  Dick  on  the  evening 
after  their  journey  to  London,  when  they  had  dined 
together  and  Jim  had  said  he  would  bide  his  chance. 


CICELY'S    RETURN  307 

If  he  were  to  sink  back  now  into  what  had  seemed  his 
old  apathy,  he  would  lose  Cicely  again  and  she  would 
lose  her  present  chance  of  happiness. 

The  twins,  informed  by  their  mother  that  they 
must  not  go  to  the  station  to  meet  Cicely,  or  even 
come  down  into  the  hall,  but  that  she  would  come 
up  to  them  when  she  had  seen  her  father,  of  course 
gathered,  if  they  had  not  gathered  it  before,  that 
their  elder  sister  was  coming  home  in  disgrace,  and 
spent  their  leisure  time  in  devising  methods  to  show 
that  they  did  not  share  in  the  disapprobation;  in 
which  they  were  alternately  encouraged  and  thwarted 
by  Miss  Bird,  whose  tender  affection  for  Cicely 
warred  with  her  fear  of  the  Squire's  displeasure. 

Mrs.  Clinton  was  in  the  hall  when  the  carriage 
drove  up.  Cicely  came  in,  on  her  face  an  expression 
of  mixed  determination  and  timidity,  and  her 
mother  drew  her  into  the  morning-room.  "  Father 
wants  to  see  you  at  once,  darling,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  be  good.  If  you  can  make  him  understand 
ever  so  little  you  know  he  will  be  kind." 

It  was  doubtful  if  this  hurried  speech  would  help 
matters  at  all,  and  there  was  no  time  for  more,  for 
the  Squire  was  at  his  door  asking  the  servants  where 
Miss  Clinton  was,  for  he  wanted  to  see  her  at  once. 

"  I  am  here,  father,"  said  Cicely,  going  out  into  the 
hall  again. 

"  I  want  you  in  here,"  said  the  Squire.  They 
went  into  his  room  and  the  door  was  shut,  leaving 
Mrs.  Clinton  alone  outside. 


308     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

The  Squire  marched  up  to  the  empty  fireplace  and 
took  his  stand  with  his  back  to  it.  Cicely  sat  down 
in  one  of  the  big  chairs,  which  seemed  to  disconcert 
him  for  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  come  home  ex- 
pecting to  be  welcomed  as  if  nothing  had  happened," 
he  began. 

"  No,  I  don't  expect  that,  father,"  said  Cicely. 

"Oh!  Well  now,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it.? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know.  I  have  been  pretty 
patient,  I  think.  You  have  had  your  fling  for  over 
a  fortnight,  the  whole  house  has  been  upset  and  I've 
said  nothing.  Now  I  want  to  get  to  the  bottom 
of  it.  Because  if  you  think  that  you  can  behave  in 
that  way  " — here  followed  a  vivid  summary  of  the 
way  in  which  Cicely  had  behaved — "  you  are  very 
much  mistaken."  The  Squire  was  now  fairly 
launched.  It  only  rested  with  Cicely  to  keep  him 
going  with  a  word  every  now  and  then,  for  she  knew 
that  until  he  had  wrought  himself  into  a  due  state 
of  indignation  and  then  given  satisfactory  vent  to  it, 
nothing  she  could  say  would  have  any  effect  at  all. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  father,"  she  said.  "  I  know  it 
was  wrong  of  me,  and  I  won't  do  it  again." 

This  was  all  that  was  wanted.  "  Won't  do  it 
again?"  echoed  the  Squire.  "No,  you  won't  do  it 
again.  I'll  take  good  care  of  that."  He  then  went 
on  to  bring  home  to  her  the  enormity  of  her  offence, 
which  seemed  to  have  consisted  chiefly  in  upsetting 
the  whole  house,  which  he  wouldn't  have,  and  so  on. 


CICELY'S   RETURN  309 

But  when  he  had  repeated  all  he  had  to  say  twice, 
and  most  of  it  three  or  four  times,  he  suddenly  took 
his  seat  in  the  chair  opposite  to  her  and  said  in  quite 
a  different  tone,  "  What  on  earth  made  you  do  it, 
Cicely?  "  and  her  time  had  come. 

"  I  was  not  happy  at  home,  father,"  she  said 
quietly. 

This  set  the  Squire  off  on  another  oration,  tending 
to  show  that  it  was  positively  wicked  to  talk  like 
that.  There  wasn't  a  girl  in  England  who  had  more 
done  for  her.  He  himself  spent  his  days  and  nights 
chiefly  in  thinking  what  he  could  do  for  the  happi- 
ness of  his  children,  and  the  same  might  be  said  of 
their  mother.  He  enumerated  the  blessings  Cicely 
enjoyed,  amongst  which  the  amount  of  money  spent 
upon  keeping  up  a  place  like  Kencote  bulked  largely. 
When  he  had  gone  over  the  field  a  second  time,  and 
picked  up  the  gleanings  left  over  from  his  sheaves 
of  oratory,  he  asked  her,  apparently  as  a  matter  of 
kindly  curiosity,  what  she  had  to  grumble  about. 

She  told  him  dispiritedly,  leaving  him  time  after 
each  item  of  her  discontent  to  put  her  in  the  wrong. 

Item:  She  had  nothing  to  do  at  home. 

He  said  amongst  other  things  that  he  had  in  that 
very  room  a  manuscript  volume  compiled  by  her 
great-great-grandmother  full  of  receipts  and  so 
forth,  which  he  intended  to  get  published  some  day 
to  show  what  women  could  do  in  a  house  if  they  really 
did  what  they  ought. 

Item :  She  hadn't  been  properly  educated. 


310     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

That  was  wicked  nonsense,  and  he  wondered  at  a 
daughter  of  his  talking  such  trash.  In  the  course  of 
further  remarks  he  said  that  when  all  the  girls  in 
the  board  schools  could  play  the  piano  and  none  of 
them  could  cook,  he  supposed  the  Radicals  would  be 
satisfied. 

Item:  There  were  a  great  many  horses  in  the 
stable  and  she  was  not  allowed  to  ride  one  of 
them. 

Did  she  think  she  had  gone  the  right  way  to  work 
to  have  horses  given  her,  bolting  out  of  the  house 
without  a  with  your  leave  or  a  by  your  leave,  etc.? 
Had  her  six  great-aunts  ever  wanted  horses  to  ride? 
Hunting  he  would  not  have.  He  might  be  old- 
fashioned,  he  dared  say  he  was,  but  to  see  a  woman 

tearing  about  the  country,  etc. !    But  if  she  had 

come  to  him  properly,  and  it  had  been  otherwise 
convenient,  he  gave  her  to  understand  that  a  horse 
might  have  been  found  for  her  at  any  time.  He  did 
not  say  that  one  would  be  found  for  her  now. 

Item:  She  never  went  anywhere. 

A  treatise  on  gadding  about,  with  sub-sections 
devoted  to  the  state  of  drains  in  foreign  cities,  the 
game  of  Bridge,  as  played  in  country  houses,  and  the 
overcrowded  state  of  the  Probate  and  Divorce 
Court. 

Item:  She  never  saw  anybody  interesting. 

A  flat  denial,  and  in  the  course  of  its  expansion  a 
sentence  that  brought  the  blood  to  Cicely's  face  and 
left  her  pale  and  terrified.     "  Why,  only  the  other 


CICELY'S    RETURN  311 

day,"  said  the  Squire,  "  one  of  the  most  talked  of 
men  in  England  dined  here.     I  suppose  you  would 
call    Ronald    Mackenzie    an    interesting    man,    eh? 
Why,  what's  the  matter?    Aren't  you  well?  " 
"  Oh  yes,  father  dear.     Please  go  on." 
The  Squire  went  on.    Fortunately  he  had  not  no- 
ticed the  sudden  blush,  but  only  the  paleness  that 
had  followed  it.      Supposing  he  had  seen,   and  her 
secret  had  been  dragged  out  of  her!     She  gave  him 
no  more  material  on  which  to  exercise  his  gift  of 
oratory,  but  sat  silent  and  frightened  while  he  dealt 
further  with  the  subject  in  hand  and  showed  her  that 
she  was  fortunate  in  living  amongst  the  most  inter- 
esting set  of  people  in  England.     Her  uncle  Tom 
knew    as    much   as    anybody    about    butterflies,   her 
Aunt  Grace  played  the  piano  remarkably  well  for 
an  amateur,  Sir  Ralph  Perry,  who  lived  at  Warnton 
Court,  four  miles  away,  had  written  a  book  on  fly- 
fishing,   the   Rector    of   Bathgate   had   published    a 
volume   of   sermons,    the    Vicar    of    Blagden    rubbed 
brasses,  Mrs.  Kingston  of  Axtol  was  the  daughter  of 
a  Cambridge  professor,  and  the  Squire  supposed  he 
was    not   entirely    destitute    of    intelligence    himself. 
At  any  rate,  he  had  corresponded  with  a  good  many 
learned  gentlemen  in  his  time,  and  they  seemed  anx- 
ious enough  to  come  to  Kencote,  and  didn't  treat 
him  exactly  as  if  he  were  a  fool  when  they  did  come. 
"The  upshot  of  it  all  is.  Cicely,"  concluded  the 
Squire,  "  that  you  want  a  great  many  things  that  you 
can't  have  and  are  not  going  to  have,  and  the  sooner 


312     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

you  see  that  and  settle  down  sensibly  to  do  your  duty 
the  better." 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Cicely,  longing  to  get  away. 

The  Squire  bethought  himself.  He  had  nothing 
more  to  say,  although  as  he  was  considering  what  to 
do  next  he  said  over  again  a  few  of  the  more  salient 
tilings  that  he  had  said  before.  He  hoped  he  had 
made  an  impression,  but  he  would  have  liked  to  end 
up  on  a  note  rather  less  tame  than  this.  With 
Cicely  so  meek  and  quiet,  however,  and  his  indigna- 
tion against  her,  already  weakened  by  having  been 
spread  over  a  fortnight,  having  now  entirely  evapor- 
ated by  being  expressed,  as  his  indignation  generally 
did  evaporate,  he  had  arrived  somehow  at  a  loose 
end.  He  looked  at  his  daughter  for  the  first  time 
with  some  affection,  and  noticed  that  she  was  pale, 
and,  he  thought,  thinner. 

"  Come  here  and  give  me  a  kiss,"  he  said,  and  she 
went  to  him  and  put  her  head  on  his  big  shoulder. 
"  Now  you're  going  to  be  a  good  girl  and  not  give 
us  any  more  trouble,  aren't  you?  "  he  said,  patting 
her  on  the  sleeve;  and  she  promised  that  she  would 
be  a  good  girl  and  not  give  any  more  trouble,  with 
mental  reservations  mercifully  hidden  from  him. 

"  There,  don't  cry,"  said  the  Squire.  "  We  won't 
say  any  more  about  it ;  and  if  you  want  a  horse  to 
ride,  we'll  see  if  we  can't  find  you  a  horse  to  ride. 
I  dare  say  you  think  your  old  father  a  terrible 
martinet,  but  it's  all  for  your  good,  you  know.  You 
must  say  to  yourself  when  you  feel  dissatisfied  about 


CICELY'S    RETURN  313 

some  little  twopenny-halfpenny  disappointment  that 
he  knows  best." 

Cicely  gave  him  a  hug.  He  was  a  dear  old  thing 
really,  and  if  one  could  only  always  bear  in  mind  the 
relative  qualities  of  his  bark  and  his  bite  there  would 
be  no  need  at  all  to  go  in  awe  of  him.  "  Dear  old 
daddy,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sorry  I  ran  away,  and  I'm 
very  glad  to  get  home  again." 

Then  she  went  upstairs  quite  lightheartedly,  and 
along  the  corridor  to  the  schoolroom.  The  twins, 
arrayed  in  long  blue  overalls,  were  tidying  up,  after 
lessons,  and  Miss  Bird  was  urging  them  to  more  con- 
scientious endeavour,  avowing  that  it  was  no  more 
trouble  to  put  a  book  on  a  shelf  the  right  way  than 
the  wrong  way,  and  that  if  there  were  fifty  servants 
in  the  house  it  would  be  wrong  to  throw  waste  paper 
in  the  fireplace,  since  waste  paper  baskets  existed  to 
have  waste  paper  thrown  into  them  and  fireplaces  did 
not. 

After  a  minute  pause  of  observation,  the  twins 
threw  themselves  upon  Cicely  with  one  accord  and 
welcomed  her  vociferously,  and  Miss  Bird  followed 
suit. 

"  My  own  darling,"  she  said  warmly,  "  we  have 
missed  you  dreadfully  and  how  are  Muriel  and 
Walter  I  suppose  as  happy  as  anything  now  Joan  'n 
Nancy  there  is  no  occasion  to  pull  Cicely  to  pieces 
you  can  be  glad  to  see  her  without  roughness  and 
go  at  once  and  take  off  your  overalls  and  wash  your 
hands  for  tea  I  dare  say  Cicely  will  go  with  you." 


314     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  Have  you  been  to  your  room  yet,  darling?  " 
asked  Joan. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Cicely. 

"  Now  straight  to  your  own  room  first,"  said  Miss 
Bird,  clapping  her  hands  together  to  add  weight  to 
her  command.  "  You  can  go  with  Cicely  after- 
wards." 

"  All  right,  starling  darling,  we'll  be  ready  in  time 
for  tea,"  said  Nancy.  "  You  finish  clearing  up  " ; 
and  one  on  each  side  of  Cicely,  they  led  her  to  her 
own  bedroom,  and  threw  open  the  door.  The  room 
was  garlanded  with  pink  and  white  paper  roses. 
They  formed  festoons  above  the  bed  and  were  carried 
in  loops  round  the  walls,  upon  which  had  also  been 
hung  placards  printed  in  large  letters  and  coloured 
by  hand.  "  Welcome  to  our  Sister,"  ran  one  in- 
scription, and  others  were,  "  There  is  No  Place  like 
Home,"  "  Cicely  for  Ever,"  and  "  No  Popery." 

The  twins  watched  eagerly  for  signs  of  surprised 
rapture  and  were  abundantly  rewarded.  "  But  that's 
not  all,"  said  Joan,  and  led  her  up  to  the  dressing- 
table,  upon  which  was  an  illuminated  address 
running  as  follows : 

"We,  the  undersigned,  present  this  token  of  our 

continued  esteem   to   Cecilia  Mary   Clinton,   on  the 

occasion    of   her    home-coming    to    Kencote    House, 

Meadshire.    Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done  by. 

"  Signed,  Joan  Ellen  Clinton 

Nancy  Caroline  Clinton." 


CICELY'S   RETURN  315 

"  I  think  it's  rather  well  done,"  said  Nancy, 
"  though  our  vermilions  had  both  run  out  and  we 
didn't  like  to  borrow  yours  without  asking.  Starling 
bought  us  the  gold  paint  on  condition  that  we  put  in 
the  Golden  Rule.  It  doesn't  look  bad,  does  it. 
Cicely?" 

"  I  think  it's  lovely,"  said  Cicely.  "  I  shall  always 
keep  it.     Thanks  so  much,  darlings." 

After  the  subsequent  embraces,  Nancy  eyed  her 
with  some  curiosity.  "  I  say,  there  was  a  dust-up," 
she  said.  "  Have  you  made  it  up  with  father, 
Cis.?" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Joan.  "  She  doesn't  want 
you  bothering  her.  It  is  quite  enough  that  we're 
jolly  glad  to  have  her  back." 

"  I  was  rather  dull,"  said  Cicely,  with  a  nervous 
little  laugh,  "  so  I  went  away  for  a  bit." 

"  Quite  right  too,"  said  Joan.  "  I  should  have 
done  the  same,  and  so  would  Nancy.  We  thought  of 
putting  up  '  Don't  be  Downtrodden,'  but  we  were 
afraid  mother  wouldn't  like  it,  so  we  put  up  '  No 
Popery  '  instead.     It  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"  We're  doing  the  Gordon  Riots  in  history," 
Nancy  explained  further.  "  Father  was  awful  at 
first,  Cis,  but  he  has  calmed  down  a  lot  since.  I 
think  Dick  poured  oil  on  the  troubled  waters.  Dick 
is  a  brick.  He  gave  us  half  a  sovereign  each  before 
he  went  up  to  Scotland." 

"We  didn't  ask  him  for  it,"  said  Nancy. 

"  No,"   said  Joan,   "  we   only   told  him  we   were 


316     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

saving  up  for  a  camera,  and  it  took  a  long  time  out 
of  a  bob  a  week  each  pocket-money." 

"  Flushed  with  our  success,"  said  Nancy,  "  we  tried 
father ;  but  the  moment  w^as  not  propitious." 

"  It  was  your  fault,"  said  Joan.  "  You  would 
hurry  it.  Directly  I  said,  '  When  we  get  our 
camera  we  shall  be  able  to  take  photographs  of  the 
shorthorns,'  you  heaved  a  silly  great  sigh  and  said, 
'  It  takes  such  a  long  time  to  save  up  with  only  a 
shilling  a  week  pocket-money,'  and  of  course  what 
could  he  say  but  that  when  he  was  our  age  he  only 
had  sixpence.'^  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it  for  a  moment,"  said  Nancy. 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  He  had  to  say  it.  I  was 
going  to  lead  up  much  more  slowly.  How  often  has 
starling  told  you  that  if  a  thing's  worth  doing  at  all 
it's  worth  doing  well?  " 

Here  Miss  Bird  herself  appeared  at  the  door  and 
said  it  was  just  as  she  had  expected,  and  had  they 
heard  her  tell  them  to  do  a  thing  or  had  they  not, 
because  if  they  had  and  had  then  gone  and  done 
something  else  she  should  go  straight  to  Mrs.  Clinton, 
for  she  was  tired  of  having  her  words  set  at  nought, 
and  it  was  time  to  take  serious  measures,  although 
nobody  would  be  more  sorry  to  have  to  do  so  than 
herself,  Joan  and  Nancy  being  perfectly  capable  of 
behaving  themselves  as  they  should  if  they  would 
only  set  their  minds  to  it  and  do  exactly  as  she  told 
them. 

Cicely  heard  the  latter  part  of  the  address  fading 


CICELY'S    RETURN  317 

away  down  the  corridor,  shut  the  door  with  a  smile 
and  began  to  take  off  her  hat  with  a  sigh.  The  chief 
ordeal  was  over,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  to  go 
through  still  before  she  could  live  in  this  room  again 
as  she  had  lived  in  it  before.  If,  indeed,  she  ever 
could.  She  looked  round  her,  and  its  familiarity 
touched  her  strangely.  It  spoke  not  of  the  years  she 
had  occupied  it,  the  five  years  since  she  had  left  the 
nursery  wing,  but  of  the  one  night  when  she  had 
prepared  to  leave  it  for  ever.  It  would  be  part  of 
her  ordeal  to  have  that  painful  and  confusing  memory 
brought  before  her  whenever  she  entered  it.  She 
hated  now  to  think  of  that  night  and  of  the  day  and 
night  that  had  followed  it.  She  flushed  hotly  as  she 
turned  again  to  her  glass,  and  called  herself  a  fool. 
Then  she  resolutely  turned  pictures  to  the  wall  of 
her  mind  and  made  herself  think  of  something  else, 
casting  her  thoughts  loose  to  hit  upon  any  subject 
they  pleased.  They  struck  against  her  aunts  at  the 
dower-house,  and  she  grappled  the  idea  and  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  and  see  them  after  tea,  and  get  that 
over. 

She  found  them  in  their  morning-room,  engaged 
as  before,  except  that  their  tea-table  had  been 
cleared  away.  "  Well,  dear  Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt 
Laura,  I  have  come  back,"  she  said,  kissing  them 
in  turn.  "  Muriel's  house  is  so  pretty.  You  would 
love  to  see  it." 

But  Aunt  Ellen  was  not  to  be  put  off  in  this  way. 
The  Squire  had  come  down  to  them  on  the  afternoon 


318     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

of  the  day  after  Cicely  had  disappeared,  and  had 
gained  more  solid  satisfaction  from  the  attitude 
taken  up  by  Aunt  Ellen  and  Aunt  Laura  when  he 
had  unfolded  his  news  than  from  any  reception  it 
had  before  or  after.  Cicely  was  still  in  their  black 
books. 

"  Oh,  so  you  have  returned  at  last,"  said  Aunt 
Ellen,  receiving  her  kiss,  but  not  returning  it.  Aunt 
Laura  was  not  so  unforgiving.  She  kissed  her  and 
said,  "  O  Cicely,  if  you  had  known  what  unhappiness 
your  action  would  cause,  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
thought  twice  about  it." 

Cicely  sat  down.  "  I  have  made  it  all  right  with 
father  now,"  she  said.  "  I  would  rather  not  talk 
about  it  if  you  don't  mind.  Aunt  Laura.  Muriel 
sent  her  love  to  you.  I  said  I  should  come  and  see 
you  directly  I  came  back." 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  said  Aunt  Ellen — I  am 
speaking  now  of  nearly  eighty  years  ago — I  upset  a 
glass  of  table  ale  at  the  commencement  of  luncheon, 
and  your  great-grandfather  was  very  angry.  But 
that  was  nothing  to  this." 

"  I  have  seldom  seen  your  dear  father  so  moved," 
said  Aunt  Laura.  "  I  cannot  see  very  well  without 
my  glasses,  and  I  had  mislaid  them;  they  were  on 
the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room  where  I  had  gone 
to  get  out  a  decanter  of  sherry;  but  I  believe  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  If  it  was  so  it  should  make 
you  all  the  more  sorry,  Cicely." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Cicely,  "  but  father  has 


CICELY'S   RETURN  319 

forgiven  me.    Mayn't  we  talk  about  something  else?  " 

"  Your  father  was  very  high-spirited  as  a  child," 
said  Aunt  Ellen,  "  and  I  and  your  aunts  had  some 
difficulty  in  managing  him;  not  that  he  was  a 
naughty  child,  far  from  it,  but  he  was  full  of  life. 
And  you  must  always  remember  that  he  was  a  boy. 
But  I  feel  quite  sure  that  he  would  never  in  his  wild- 
est moments  have  thought  of  going  away  from  home 
and  leaving  no  word  of  his  address." 

"  I  sent  a  telegram,"  pleaded  Cicely. 

"  Ah,  but  telegrams  were  not  invented  in  the  days 
I  am  speaking  of,"  said  Aunt  Ellen. 

"  Pardon  me,  sister,"  said  Aunt  Laura.  "  The 
electric  telegraph  was  invented  when  Edward  was  a 
boy,  but  not  when  we  were  girls." 

"  That  may  be  so,  sister,"  said  Aunt  Ellen.  "  It 
is  many  years  since  we  were  girls,  but  I  say  that 
Edward  would  not  have  run  away." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Aunt  Laura.  "  You  should 
never  forget.  Cicely,  what  a  good  father  you  have. 
I  am  sure  when  I  heard  the  other  day  from  Mr. 
Hayles  that  your  dear  father  had  instructed  him  to 
refuse  Lady  Alistair  MacLeod's  most  advantageous 
offer  to  rent  this  house,  solely  on  account  of  your 
Aunt  Ellen  and  myself,  I  felt  that  we  were,  indeed, 
in  good  hands,  and  fortunate  to  be  so." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  "  that  this 
house  is  larger  than  your  Aunt  Laura  and  I  require. 
I  told  your  father  that  with  my  own  lips.  But  at  the 
same  time  it  is  unlikely  that  at  my  age  I  have  many 


B20     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

more  years  to  live,  and  I  said  that  if  it  could  be  so 
arranged,  I  should  wish  to  die  in  this  house  as  I  have 
lived  in  it  for  the  greater  part  of  my  life." 

"  He  saw  that  at  once,"  said  Aunt  Laura.  "  There 
is  nobody  that  is  quicker  at  seeing  a  thing  than  your 
dear  father,  Cicely.  He  spoke  very  kindly  about  it. 
He  said  we  must  all  die  some  time  or  other,  which  is 
perfectly  true,  but  that  if  your  Aunt  Ellen  did  not 
live  to  be  a  hundred  he  should  never  forgive  her.  He 
is  like  your  dear  Aunt  Caroline  in  that ;  he  is  always 
one  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  things." 

"  But  didn't  he  tell  you  at  once  that  he  didn't  want 
to  let  the  house  ?  "  asked  Cicely.  "  Did  he  leave  it 
to  Mr.  Hayles  to  tell  you  afterwards?  " 

"  There  was  a  delicacy  in  that,"  replied  Aunt 
Laura.  "  If  there  is  one  thing  that  your  dear  father 
dislikes,  it  is  being  thanked.  And  we  could  not  have 
helped  thanking  him.  We  had  gone  through  a  week 
of  considerable  anxiety." 

"  Which  he  might  have  saved  you,"  Cicely  thought, 
but  did  not  say. 

"When  we  lived  at  Kencote  House  with  our  fa- 
ther," said  Aunt  Ellen,  "  it  was  never  thought  that 
the  dower-house  possessed  any  advantages  to  speak 
of.  I  do  not  say  that  we  have  made  it  what  it  is,  for 
that  would  be  boasting,  but  I  do  say  that  it  would 
not  be  what  it  is  if  we  had  not  made  it  so ;  and  now 
that  the  danger  is  past,  it  causes  both  your  Aunt 
Laura  and  myself  much  gratification,  and  would  cause 
gratification  to  your  other  dear  aunts  if  they  could 


CICELY'S    RETURN  321 

know  what  had  happened,  as  no  doubt  they  do,  that 
it  should  now  be  sought  after." 

The  topic  proved  interesting  enough  to  occupy  the 
conversation  for  the  rest  of  Cicely's  visit.  She  kept 
them  to  it  diligently  and  got  through  nearly  an 
hour's  talk  without  further  recurrence  to  her  mis- 
doings. Then  she  took  her  leave  rather  hurriedly, 
congratulating  herself  that  she  had  got  safely  over 
another  fence. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THE    LIFE 

Mrs.  Graham,  in  spite  of  her  good  points,  was  not 
overburdened  with  the  maternal  spirit.  She  had  little 
love  for  children  as  children,  and  when  her  own  were 
small  she  had  lavished  no  great  amount  of  affection 
on  them.  In  the  case  of  other  people's  children  she 
frankly  averred  that  she  didn't  understand  them  and 
preferred  dogs.  But  she  was  equable  by  nature  and 
had  companionable  gifts,  and  as  Jim  and  Muriel  had 
grown  up  they  had  found  their  mother  pleasant  to 
live  with,  never  anxious  to  assert  authority,  and  al- 
ways interested  in  such  of  their  pursuits  as  chimed 
in  with  her  own  inclinations ;  also  quite  ready  with 
sensible  advice  and  some  sympathy  when  either  was 
required  of  her,  and  showing  no  annoyance  at  all  if 
the  advice  was  not  followed. 

It  was  not  altogether  surprising  then  that  Jim, 
when  he  had  been  back  at  Mountfield  for  three  or 
four  days,  should  have  taken  her  into  his  confidence. 
She  had  heard  what,  thanks  to  the  Squire,  every  one 
in  that  part  of  the  county  had  heard,  that  Cicely  had 
run  off  to  London  without  taking  any  clothes  with 
her — this  point  always  emerged — and  that  Dick,  and, 
for  some  as  yet  unexplained  reason,  Jim,  had  gone 
up  after  her.     But  when  Jim  returned,  and  told  her 

323 


THE    LIFE  323 

simply  that  Cicely  was  staying  with  Muriel  and  that 
everything  was  all  right,  she  had  asked  no  further 
questions,  although  she  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing that  she  had  not  been  told.  She  had  her 
reward  when  Jim,  sitting  in  her  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  told  her  that  he  would  like  to  talk  over  some- 
thing with  her. 

The  drawing-room  at  Mountfield  was  a  long, 
rather  low  room,  hung  with  an  old  French  paper  of 
nondescript  grey,  upon  which  were  some  water- 
colours  which  were  supposed  to  be  valuable.  The 
carpet  was  of  faded  green,  with  ferns  and  roses. 
The  curtains  were  of  thick  crimson  brocade  under  a 
gilt  canopy.  There  w^as  a  large  Chippendale  mirror, 
undoubtedly  valuable,  over  the  white  marble  mantel- 
piece, upon  which  were  three  great  vases  of  blue 
Worcester  and  some  Dresden  china  figures.  The 
furniture  was  upholstered  in  crimson  to  match  the 
curtains.  There  was  an  old  grand  piano,  there  were 
one  or  two  china  cabinets  against  the  walls,  a  white 
skin  rug  before  the  fire,  palms  in  pots,  a  rosewood 
table  or  two,  and  a  low  glass  bookcase  with  more 
china  on  the  top  of  it.  There  was  nothing  modern, 
and  the  chairs  and  sofas  were  not  particularly  com- 
fortable. The  room  had  always  been  like  that  ever 
since  Jim  could  remember,  and  his  mother,  sitting 
upright  in  her  low  chair  knitting  stocking  tops,  also 
belonged  to  the  room  and  gave  it  a  comforting  air  of 
home.  She  had  on  a  black  gown  and  her  face  and 
neck  were  much  redder  than  the  skin  beneath  them. 


SU     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

but,  like  many  women  to  whom  rough  tweeds  and 
thick  boots  seem  to  be  the  normal  wear,  she 
looked  well  in  the  more  feminine  attire  of  the 
evening. 

"  Talk  away,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  without 
raising  her  head.  "  Two  heads  are  better  than  one. 
I  suppose  it  is  something  about  Cicely." 

"  When  Cicely  went  away  the  other  day  she  didn't 
go  to  see  Muriel ;  she  went  to  marry  Mackenzie." 

She  did  raise  her  head  then  to  throw  an  astonished 
look  at  her  son,  who  did  not  meet  it,  but  she  lowered 
it  again  and  made  one  or  two  stitches  before  she 
replied,  "  She  didn't  marry  him,  of  course?  " 

"No.  Dick  and  I  found  them,  and  got  her  away 
just  in  time.  That  is  all  over  now,  and  I  can't  think 
about  that  fellow." 

"  Well,  I  won't  ask  you  to.  But  I  suppose  you 
won't  mind  telling  me  why  she  did  such  an  extraor- 
dinary thing." 

"  Because  she  is  bored  to  death  at  Kencote,  and  I 
don't  wonder  at  it." 

"  And  do  you  still  intend  to  bring  her  to  be  bored 
to  death  at  Mountfield?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  if  she  will  come.  And  I'll  see  that 
she's  not  bored.  At  least  that  is  what  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about.  Muriel  could  tell  me  what  she 
wants  to  make  her  happy,  but  I  can't  go  to  Muriel 
as  long  as  Cicely  is  there,  and  I  can't  write ;  I've 
tried.  You've  been  happy  enough  here,  mother.  You 
ought  to  be  able  to  tell  me." 


THE   LIFE  325 

Mrs.  Graham  kept  silence  for  a  considerable  time. 
Then  she  said,  "  Well,  Jim,  I'm  glad  you  have  come 
to  me.  I  think  I  can  help  you.  In  the  first  place, 
you  mustn't  play  the  martinet  as  Mr.  Clinton  does." 

"  It  isn't  likely  I  should  treat  her  as  he  does  Mrs. 
Clinton,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  a  good  deal  more  than  that.  If  Mr. 
Clinton  knew  how  disagreeable  it  was  to  other  people 
to  hear  him  talk  to  her  as  he  does,  he  probably 
wouldn't  do  it.  But  even  if  he  didn't  he  might  still 
make  her  life  a  burden  to  her,  by  taking  away  every 
ounce  of  independence  she  had.  I  don't  know 
whether  her  life  is  a  burden  to  her  or  not;  I  don't 
pretend  to  understand  her ;  but  I  do  know  that  you 
couldn't  treat  Cicely  like  that,  and  I  suppose  this 
escapade  of  hers  proves  it." 

"  The  poor  old  governor  was  a  bit  of  a  martinet," 
said  Jim,  after  a  pause. 

"  He  thought  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Graham  drily. 

Jim  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  I  know  what  it  all  means,"  his  mother  went  on. 
"  I  think  things  over  more  than  you  would  give  me 
credit  for,  Jim,  and  I've  seen  it  before.  This  quiet 
country  life  happens  to  suit  me  down  to  the  ground, 
but  I  don't  believe  it  satisfies  the  majority  of  women. 
And  that  is  what  men  don't  understand.  It  suits 
them,  of  course,  and  if  it  doesn't  they  can  always 
get  away  from  it  for  a  bit.  But  to  shut  women  up 
in  a  country  house  all  the  year  round,  and  give 
them    no    interests    in    life    outside    it — you    won't 


326     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

give  one  woman  in  ten  what  she  wants  in  that 
way." 

"  What  do  they  want  then  ?  " 

"  It  is  more  what  Cicely  wants,  isn't  it  ?  I  don't 
know  exactly,  but  I  can  give  a  pretty  shrewd  guess. 
If  you  want  to  find  out  something  about  a  person,  it 
isn't  a  bad  thing  to  look  at  their  parentage  on  both 
sides.     On  one  side  she  comes  of  a  race  of  yokels." 

"  Oh,  come,  mother.    The  Birkets  are '" 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  the  Birkets,  I'm  talking 
about  the  Clintons.  Poor  dear  Mr.  Clinton  is  a 
yokel,  for  all  his  ancestry.  If  he  had  been  changed 
at  birth  and  brought  up  a  farm  labourer,  he  wouldn't 
have  had  an  idea  in  his  head  above  the  average  of 
them ;  he  would  only  have  had  a  little  more  pluck. 
Any  Birket's  brains  are  worth  six  of  any  Clinton's 
in  the  open  market.  Mrs.  Clinton  is  a  clever  woman, 
although  she  doesn't  show  it,  and  her  dear,  stupid 
old  husband  would  smother  the  brains  of  Minerva  if 
he  lived  with  her.  You've  only  got  to  look  at  their 
children  to  see  where  the  Birket  comes  in.  Dick  is 
exactly  like  his  father,  except  that  he  is  not  a  fool; 
Humphrey  is  a  fool  to  my  thinking,  but  not  the  same 
sort  of  fool;  Walter — there's  no  need  to  speak  of 
him;  Frank  I  don't  know  much  about,  but  he  isn't 
a  yokel ;  Cicely  simply  hasn't  had  a  chance,  but  she'll 
take  it  fast  enough  when  she  gets  it ;  and  as  for  the 
twins,  they're  as  sharp  as  monkeys,  for  all  their  blue 
eyes  and  sweet  innocence." 

"  Well,  what  does  it  all  lead  to,  mother.?  " 


THE   LIFE  327 

"  It  leads  to  this,  Jim :  I  believe  Cicely  will  be  as 
happy  living  in  the  country  as  most  girls,  but  at 
Kencote  she  doesn't  even  get  the  pleasures  that  a 
woman  can  get  out  of  the  country ;  those  are  all  kept 
for  the  men.  You  must  take  her  about  a  bit.  Take 
her  to  other  houses  and  get  people  to  come  here. 
Don't  shut  her  up.  Take  her  to  London  every  now 
and  then,  and  try  and  let  her  see  some  of  the  sort  of 
people  that  go  to  her  Uncle  Herbert  Birket's  house. 
I  believe  she  could  hold  her  own  with  any  of  them, 
and  you'll  be  proud  of  her.  Let  her  stir  her  mind 
up ;  she  doesn't  know  what's  in  it  yet.  Take  her 
abroad.  That  always  helps ;  even  I  should  have 
liked  it,  only  j^our  father  didn't,  and  I  wasn't  keen 
enough  to  let  it  make  a  disturbance.  Give  her  her 
head ;  that's  what  it  comes  to.  She  won't  lose  it 
again." 

Jim  thought  for  a  long  time  while  Mrs.  Graham 
went  on  knitting. 

"  A  woman  wants  some  brightness  in  her  life, 
especially  before  the  babies  begin  to  come,"  she  said, 
before  he  spoke. 

"  Thanks,  mother,"  he  said  simply.  "  I'll  think  it 
all  over." 

"  I  have  thought  it  over,"  she  answered,  "  and  it's 
all  sound  sense." 

Jim's  next  speech  was  some  time  coming,  but  when 
it  did  come  it  was  rather  a  startling  one. 

"  I've  given  Weatherley  notice  to  leave  the  Grange 
at  Christmas." 


328     THE    SQUIRE'S    DAUGHTER 

Mrs.  Graham's  needles  stopped,  and  then  went  on 
again  rather  more  quickly.  Her  voice  shook  a  little 
as  she  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  I  suppose  you 
won't  mind  altering  the  stables  for  me.  There  is 
only  one  loose-box." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  best  to  add  on  a  couple 
under  another  roof,"  said  Jim,  and  they  went  on  to 
discuss  other  alterations  that  would  be  necessary 
when  Mrs.  Graham  should  leave  Mountfield  to  go  to 
live  at  the  Grange,  but  without  any  approach  to 
sentiment,  and  no  expressions  of  regret  on  either  side. 

When  they  had  done,  and  there  had  followed 
another  of  those  pauses  with  which  their  conversa- 
tions were  punctuated,  Mrs.  Graham  said,  "  You  are 
making  very  certain  of  Cicely,  Jim." 

"  I'm  going  to  claim  her,"  said  Jim  quietly.  "  I 
was  a  fool  not  to  do  it  before.  I've  wanted  her 
badly  enough." 

Perhaps  this  news  was  as  fresh  to  Mrs.  Graham 
as  it  had  been  to  all  those  others  who  had  heard  it 
lately.  Perhaps  it  was  no  news  at  all.  She  was 
an  observant  woman  and  was  accustomed  to  keep 
silence  on  many  subjects,  except  when  she  was  asked 
to  speak,  and  then  she  spoke  volubly. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  she  said,  "  why  you  left 
it  so  long." 

Jim  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  made  another  sur- 
prising statement.  "  I'm  going  to  stand  for  Parlia- 
ment," he  said. 

Mrs.  Graham's  observation  had  not  covered  this 


THE   LIFE  329 

possibility.  "  Good  gracious  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Not 
as  a  Liberal,  I  hope !  " 

"  No,  as  a  Free  Trade  Unionist." 

"  I  should  think  you  might  as  well  save  your  time 
and  your  money." 

"  I  don't  expect  to  get  in.  But  if  I  can  find  a  seat 
to  fight  for,  I'll  fight." 

"Well,  I'll  help  you,  Jim.  I  believe  the  others 
are  right,  but  if  you  will  give  me  something  to  read 
I  dare  say  I  can  persuade  myself  that  they're 
wrong.  I  like  a  good  fight,  and  that  is  one  thing  you 
don't  get  the  chance  of  when  you  live  with  your  pigs 
and  your  poultry.  Excuse  me  asking,  but  what  about 
the  money  ?  " 

"  I've  settled  all  that,  and  I'm  going  to  let  this 
place  for  two  years  at  least." 

Mrs.  Graham  dropped  her  knitting  once  more. 
"  Well,  really,  Jim  1  "  she  said.  "  Have  you  got 
anything  else  startling  to  break  to  me,  because  I 
wish  you  would  bring  it  out  all  at  once  now.  I  can 
bear  it." 

"  That's  all,"  said  Jim,  with  a  grin.  "  I  shall  save 
a  lot  of  money.  I  shall  take  a  flat  or  a  little  house 
in  London  and  do  some  work.  There  are  lots  of 
things  besides  Free  Trade;  things  I'm  keener  about, 
really.  I  don't  think  Cicely  will  mind.  I  think  she 
will  go  in  with  me." 

Mrs.  Graham  took  up  her  knitting  again  and  put 
on  another  row  of  stitches.  Then  she  said,  "  I  don't 
know  why  you  asked  my  advice  as  to  what  Cicely 


330     THE   SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

wanted.     It  seems  to  me  you  have  thought  it  out 
pretty  well  for  yourself." 

Jim  rode  over  to  Kencote  two  days  after  Cicely's 
return.  It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  harvesting 
was  in  full  swing  as  he  trotted  along  between  the 
familiar  fields.  He  felt  rather  sad  at  being  about 
to  leave  it  all;  he  was  a  countryman  at  heart,  al- 
though he  had  interests  that  were  not  bucolic.  But 
there  was  not  much  room  for  sadness  in  his  mind.  He 
was  sure  of  himself,  and  had  set  out  to  grasp  a  great 
happiness. 

He  met  the  Squire  on  his  stout  cob  about  a  mile 
from  Kencote,  and  pulled  up  to  speak  to  him. 

"How  are  you,  Jim?  "  he  said  heartily.  "  Birds 
doing  all  right?    Ours  are  first-class  this  year." 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I've  got 
something  to  say." 

"  Well,  say  it  here,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I'm 
not  going  to  turn  back." 

So  they  sat  on  their  horses  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  Jim  said,  "  I  want  to  marry  Cicely  as  soon 
as  possible." 

The  Squire's  jaw  dropped  as  he  stared  at  the 
suitor.  Then  he  threw  back  his  head  and  produced 
his  loud,  hearty  laugh.  "  Well,  that's  a  funny 
thing,"  he  said.  "  I  was  only  saying  to  my  wife  this 
morning  that  Cicely  would  die  an  old  maid  if  she 
looked  to  you  to  come  and  take  her." 

Jim's   red  face  became   a   little   redder,   but  the 


THE   LIFE  331 

Squire  did  not  give  him  time  to  reply.  "  I  was  only 
joking,  you  know,  Jim,  my  boy,"  he  said  kindly.  "  I 
knew  you  were  all  right,  and  I  tell  you  frankly  there's 
nobody  I'd  sooner  give  my  girl  to.  But  why  do  you 
want  to  rush  it  now?  What  about  those  rascally 
death  duties  ?  " 

"  It's  only  a  question  of  income,"  said  Jim  shortly. 
"  And  I'm  going  to  let  Mountfield  for  a  year  or 
two." 

The  Squire's  jaw  fell  again.  "Let  Mountfieldl" 
he  cried.  "  O  my  dear  fellow,  don't  do  that,  for 
God's  sake.  Wait  a  bit  longer.  Cicely  won't  run 
away.  Ha!  ha!  Why  she  did  run  away — what? 
Look  here,  Jim,  you're  surely  not  worrying  yourself 
about  that.  She  won't  do  it  again,  I'll  promise  you 
that.    I've  talked  to  her." 

"  I  think  it  is  time  I  took  her,"  said  Jim,  "  if  she'll 
have  me." 

"  Have  you  ?  Of  course  she'll  have  you.  But 
you  mustn't  let  Mountfield.  Don't  think  of  that, 
my  boy.  We'll  square  it  somehow,  between  us.  My 
girl  won't  come  to  you  empty-handed,  you  know,  and 
as  long  as  the  settlements  are  all  right  you  can  keep 
her  a  bit  short  for  a  year  or  two;  tell  her  to  go 
easy  in  the  house.  She's  a  good  girl,  and  she'll  do 
her  best.  No  occasion  to  let  down  the  stables,  and 
you  must  keep  a  good  head  of  game.  We'll  make 
that  all  right,  and  it  won't  do  you  any  harm  to 
economise  a  bit  in  other  ways.  In  fact  it's  a  good 
thing  for  young  people.     You  might  put  down  your 


33^     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

carriage  for  a  year,  and  perhaps  a  few  maids — I 
should  keep  the  men  except  perhaps  a  gardener  or 
two.  Oh,  there  are  lots  of  ways ;  but  don't  let  the 
place,  Jim." 

"  Well,  I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Jim,  who  had  no 
intention  of  prematurely  disclosing  his  intentions  to 
the  Squire,  "  but  you'll  let  me  have  her,  Mr.  Clinton? 
I  thought  of  going  over  to  see  her  now." 

"Go  by  all  means,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire 
heartily.  "  You'll  find  her  about  somewhere,  only 
don't  make  her  late  for  lunch.  You'll  stay,  of 
course.  You  haven't  seen  Hayles  about  anywhere, 
have  you?    He's  not  in  the  office." 

Jim  had  not,  and  the  Squire  trotted  off  to  find  his 
agent,  with  a  last  word  of  dissuasion  on  letting 
Mountfield. 

The  ubiquitous  twins  were  in  the  stableyard  when 
he  rode  in,  raiding  the  corn  bin  for  sustenance  for 
their  fantails.  "  Hullo,  Jim,  my  boy,"  said  Joan. 
"  You're  quite  a  stranger." 

"  You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of  course,"  said  Nancy. 
"  How  are  the  birds  at  Mountfield  ?  I  think  we  ought 
to  do  very  well  here  this  year." 

"Where  is  Cicely?"  asked  Jim,  ignoring  these 
pleasantries. 

"  She's  out  of  doors  somewhere,"  said  Joan. 
"  We'll  help  you  find  her.  We  ought  to  be  going  in 
to  lessons  again,  but  starling  won't  mind." 

"  I  can  find  her  myself,  thanks,"  said  Jim.  "  Is  she 
in  the  garden?  " 


THE   LIFE  33B 

"  We'll  show  you,"  said  Nancy.  "  You  can't  shake 
us  off.    We're  like  the  limpets  of  the  rock." 

But  here  Miss  Bird  appeared  at  the  schoolroom 
window,  adjuring  the  twins  to  come  in  at  once. 
"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Jim?"  she  cried,  nodding 
her  head  in  friendly  welcome.  "  Do  you  want 
to  find  Cicely  she  has  gone  down  to  the  lake  to 
sketch." 

"  Bother !  "  exclaimed  Joan.  "  Starling  is  so 
officious." 

"  You  will  find  our  sister  in  the  Temple  of  Melan- 
choly," said  Nancy.  "  It  will  be  your  part  to  smooth 
the  lines  of  trouble  from  her  brow." 

"  Oh,  coming,  coming,  Miss  Bird ! "  called  out 
Joan.  "  We've  only  got  an  hour  more,  Jim — spell- 
ing and  dictation;  then  we  will  come  and  look  you 
up." 

Jim  strode  off  across  the  park  and  entered  the 
rhododendron  dell  by  an  iron  gate.  He  followed  a 
broad  green  path  between  great  banks  of  shrubs  and 
under  the  shade  of  trees  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  Every  now  and  then  an  open  grassy  space 
led  to  the  water,  which  lay  very  still,  ringed  with 
dark  green.  He  turned  down  one  of  these  and 
peeped  round  the  edge  of  a  bush  from  whence  he 
could  see  the  white  pillared  temple  at  the  head  of  the 
lake.  Cicely  was  sitting  in  front  of  it,  drawing,  and 
his  heart  gave  a  little  leap  as  he  saw  her.  Then  he 
walked  more  quickly,  and  as  he  neared  the  temple 
began  to  whistle,  for  he  knew  that,  thinking  herself 


334     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

quite  alone,  Cicely  would  be  disagreeably  startled  if 
he  came  upon  her  suddenly. 

Perhaps  she  thought  it  was  a  gardener  who  was 
coming,  for  she  did  not  move  until  he  spoke  her 
name,  coming  out  from  behind  the  building  on  to  the 
stained  marble  platform  in  front  of  it.  Then  she 
looked  up  with  a  hot  blush.  "  O  Jim ! "  she  said 
nervously.     "  I  was  just  trying  to  paint  a  picture." 

"  It's  jolly  good,"  said  Jim,  looking  at  it  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  although  she  had  not  as  yet  gone 
further  than  light  pencil  lines. 

"  It  won't  be  when  I've  finished,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"  How  is  Mrs.  Graham?  I  am  coming  over  to  see  her 
as  soon  as  I  can,  to  tell  her  about  Muriel." 

"  She's  all  right,  thanks,"  said  Jim.  "  She  sent 
her  love.     Do  you  mind  my  watching  you.''  " 

"  I'd  much  rather  you  didn't,"  she  said,  with  a 
deprecating  laugh.  "  I  shall  make  an  awful  hash  of 
it.  Do  you  want  to  see  father?  I'll  go  and  find 
him  with  you  if  you  like." 

"  No,  I've  seen  him,"  said  Jim,  going  into  the 
temple  to  get  himself  a  chair.  "  I've  come  to  see 
you,  to  tell  you  something  I  thought  you'd  be  inter- 
ested in.  I  want  to  stand  for  Parliament,  and  I'm 
going  to  let  Mountfield." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  shade  of  relief  in 
her  face.  "  O  Jim,"  she  said,  "  I  do  hope  you  will 
get  in." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  expect  to  get 
in,"  said  Jim.     "  They  won't  have  fellows  who  think 


THE   LIFE  335 

as  I  do  in  the  party  now  if  they  can  help  it.  But 
there's  a  good  deal  to  do  outside  that.  I  kept  my 
eyes  open  when  I  was  travelling,  and  I  do  know  a 
bit  about  the  Colonies,  and  about  land  too.  There 
are  societies  I  can  make  myself  useful  in,  even  if  I 
don't  get  into  Parliament.  Anyway  I'm  going  to 
try." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Jim,"  said  Cicely.  "  But  won't 
you  miss  Mountfield  awfully?  And  where  are  you 
going  to  live?  " 

"In  London  for  a  year  or  two.  Must  be  in  the 
thick  of  things." 

"  I  suppose  you  won't  go  before  the  spring." 

"  I  want  to.    It  depends  on  you.  Cicely." 

She  had  nothing  to  say.  The  flush  that  coloured 
her  delicate  skin  so  frequently,  flooded  it  now. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  and  help  me,"  said  Jim.  "  I 
can't  do  it  without  you,  my  dear.  You're  much  clev- 
erer than  I  am.  I  want  to  get  to  know  people,  and 
I'm  not  much  good  at  that.  And  I  don't  know  that 
I  could  put  up  with  London,  living  there  by  myself. 
If  you  were  with  me  I  shouldn't  care  where  I  lived. 
I  would  rather  live  all  my  life  at  Melbury  Park  with 
you,  than  at  Mountfield  without  you." 

"  O  Jim,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  bending  over  her 
drawing  board,  "  you  are  good  and  generous.  But 
you  can't  want  me  now." 

"  Look  here,  Cicely  dear,"  he  said,  "  let's  get  over 
that  business  now,  and  leave  it  alone  for  ever.  I 
blame    myself    for    it,    I    blame — that   man,    but    I 


S36     THE   SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

haven't  got  the  smallest  little  piece  of  blame  for  you, 
and  I  shouldn't  have  even  if  I  didn't  love  you.  Why, 
even  Dick  is  the  same.  He  was  angry  at  first,  but 
not  after  he  had  seen  you.  And  Walter  thinks  as  I 
do.  I  saw  him  one  day  and  we  had  it  all  out;  you 
didn't  know.  There's  not  a  soul  who  knows  who 
blames  you,  and  nobody  ever  will." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  every  one  has  been  most 
extraordinarily  kind.  I  love  Dick  and  Walter  more 
than  ever  for  it,  because  I  know  how  it  must  have 
struck  them  when  they  first  knew.  And  you  too, 
Jim.  It  makes  me  feel  such  a  beast  to  think  how 
sweet  you  were  to  me,  and  how  I've  treated  you." 

Jim  took  her  hand.  "  Cicely,  darling,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  a  slow  fellow,  and,  I'm  afraid,  rather  stupid. 
If  I  hadn't  been  this  would  never  have  happened. 
But  I  believe  I'm  the  only  person  in  the  world  that 
can  make  you  forget  it.  You'll  let  me  try^,  won't 
you?  " 

She  tried  to  draw  away  her  hand,  but  he  held  it. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  cried.  "  It 
is  all  such  a  frightful  muddle.  I  don't  even  know 
whether  I  love  you  or  not.  I  do;  you  know  that, 
Jim.  But  I  don't  know  whether  I  love  you  in  the 
right  way.  I  thought  before  that  I  didn't.  And 
how  can  I  when  I  did  a  thing  like  that?  I'm  a  girl 
who  goes  to  any  man  who  calls  her." 

She  was  weeping  bitterly.  All  the  shame  in  her 
heart  surged  up.  She  pulled  her  hand  away  and 
covered  her  face. 


THE   LIFE  S37 

**  You  never  loved  that  man — not  for  a  moment," 
said  Jim  firmly. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  she  cried.  "  I  hate  him  now,  and  I 
believe  I  hated  him  all  the  time.  If  I  were  to  meet 
him  I  should  die  of  shame.  Oh,  why  did  I  do  it.'* 
And  I  feel  ashamed  before  you,  Jim.  I  can't  marry 
you.  I  can't  see  you  any  more.  I  am  glad  you  are 
going  away." 

"  I  am  not  going  unless  you  come  with  me,  Cicely," 
he  said.  "  I  want  you.  I  want  you  more  than  ever ; 
I  understand  you  better.  If  this  hadn't  happened 
I  shouldn't  have  known  what  you  wanted;  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  been  able  to  make  you  happy. 
Good  heavens  !  do  you  think  I  believe  that  you  wanted 
that  man?  I  know  you  didn't,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here 
now.  You  wanted  life,  and  I  had  never  offered  you 
that.  I  do  offer  it  you  now.  Come  and  help  me  to 
do  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I  can't  do  any  of  it  with- 
out you." 

She  smiled  at  him  forlornly.  "  You  are  good," 
she  said.  "  And  you  have  comforted  me  a  little. 
But  you  can't  forget  what  has  happened.  It  isn't 
possible." 

"  Look  here,  my  dear,"  said  Jim  simply.  "  Will 
you  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  have  forgotten  it 
already?  That  is  to  say  it  doesn't  come  into  my 
mind.  I  don't  have  to  keep  it  out;  it  doesn't  come. 
I've  got  other  things  to  think  of.  There's  all  the 
future,  and  what  I'm  going  to  do,  and  you  are  going 
to  help  me  to  do.    Really,  if  I  thought  of  it,  I  ought 


338     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

to  be  glad  you  did  what  you  did,  in  a  way,  for  all  I've 
thought  of  since  comes  from  that.  I  saw  what  you 
were  worth  and  what  you  could  make  of  a  man  if  he 
loved  you  as  I  do,  and  you  loved  him.  We  won'^t 
play  at  it,  Cicely.  I'm  in  earnest.  I  shall  be  a 
better  fellow  all  round  if  I'm  trying  to  do  something 
and  not  only  sitting  at  home  and  amusing  myself. 
We  shall  have  to  make  some  sacrifices.  We  shall 
only  be  able  to  afford  a  flat  or  a  little  house  in  Lon- 
don. I  must  keep  things  going  here  and  put  by  a 
bit  for  an  election,  perhaps.  But  I  know  you  won't 
mind  not  having  much  money  for  a  time.  We  shall 
be  together,  and  there  won't  be  a  thing  in  my  life 
that  you  won't  share." 

She  had  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  as  he  spoke. 
"  Do  you  really  mean  it,  Jim  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 
"  Do  you  really  want  me,  out  of  all  the  people  in  the 
world?" 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  but  you,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
don't  want  anything  without  you." 

"  Then  I  will  come  with  you,  dearest  Jim,"  she  said. 
"And  I  will  never  want  anything  except  what  you 
want  all  my  life." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  nestled  there, 
laughing  and  crying  by  turns,  but  happier  than  she 
had  ever  thought  she  could  be.  They  talked  of  a 
great  many  things,  but  not  again  of  Cicely's  flight. 
Jim  had  banished  that  spectre,  which,  if  it  returned 
to  haunt  her  thoughts  again,  would  not  affright  them. 
They  came  no  nearer  to  it  than  a  speech  of  Cicely's. 


THE   LIFE  339 

"  I  do  love  you,  dear  Jim.  I  love  you  so  much  that 
I  must  have  loved  you  all  the  time  without  knowing 
it.  I  feel  as  if  there  was  something  in  you  that  I 
could  rest  on  and  know  that  it  will  never  give  way." 

"  And  that's  exactly  how  I  feel  about  you,"  said 
Jim. 

Two  swans  sailed  out  into  the  middle  of  the  lake, 
creasing  the  still  water  into  tiny  ripples.  The  air 
was  hot  and  cahn,  and  the  heavy  leaves  of  trees  and 
shrubs  hung  motionless.  The  singing-birds  were 
silent.  Only  in  the  green  shade  were  the  hearts  of 
the  two  lovers  in  tumult — a  tumult  of  gratitude  and 
confident  happiness. 

The  peace,  but  not  the  happiness,  was  brought  to 
an  end  when  the  twins,  relaxed  from  bondage, 
heralded  their  approach  by  a  vociferous  rendering 
of  "  The  Campbells  are  coming."  They  came  round 
the  temple  arm-in-arm.  Cicely  was  drawing,  and  Jim 
looking  on. 

"  Yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Joan,  "  but  it 
doesn't  take  two  hours  to  make  three  pencil 
scratches." 

"  Girls  without  the  nice  feeling  that  we  possess," 
said  Nancy,  "  would  have  burst  upon  you  without 
warning." 

"  Without  giving  you  time  to  set  to  partners,"  said 
Joan. 

Cicely  looked  up  at  them;  her  face  was  full  of 
hght.     "  Shall  I  tell  them,  Jim?  "  she  said. 

"  Got  to,  I  suppose,"  said  Jim. 


340     THE    SQUIRE'S   DAUGHTER 

"  My  child,"  said  Joan,  "  you  need  tell  us  nothing." 

"  Your  happy  faces  tell  us  all,"  said  Nancy. 

Then,  with  a  simultaneous  relapse  into  humanity, 
they  threw  themselves  upon  her  affectionately,  and 
afterwards  attacked  Jim  in  the  same  way.  He  bore 
it  with  equanimity. 

"  You  don't  deserve  her,  Jim,"  said  Joan,  "  but  we 
trust  you  to  be  kind  to  her." 

"  From  this  day  onwards,"  said  Nancy,  "  you  will 
begin  a  new  life." 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE~ON  THP  t  a=„  ^ 
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